


If I Should Die Before I Wake I Pray the Lord my Soul to Take

by Sylvan



Series: Not Just Horsemen Come in Fours [6]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 1999-01-03
Updated: 1999-01-03
Packaged: 2018-03-05 03:08:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 55,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3103307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sylvan/pseuds/Sylvan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after When You Need Me, Grey sets the dice rolling again when he tells Tran about Methos.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I Should Die Before I Wake

  
  
**Dark at Heart...dige**

"I have something to tell you," Grey said gently. 

Tran looked up from the accounts he was working on and studied his old friend's expression. He marveled again at the collected stability he saw there. So strong, so steady. Grey met his eyes with a serene absolute confidence and Tran was awed. He raised his eyebrows in question and Grey smiled faintly. A tip of his head toward the door but he did not speak. Intrigued, Tran stood up and followed him outside. Grey led the way to Lookout Point where the satellite dish stood, gathering signals from all over the world. 

During the ten minutes it took to walk there, Tran had begun to feel nervous. Grey was leading him, which was one thing unusual. He had not just spoken what was on his mind, another thing unusual for him. Are you leaving us? was the worst Tran could imagine Grey might tell him. I don't know if I can handle the wondering. In a moment of brief amusement, he imagined himself following Grey all over the world. He met his former student's steady gaze and tilted his head again in question. Tell me, he thought. You know I don't handle suspense well. 

They sat beneath the satellite dish, facing each other. Grey reached out and captured Tran's hands, turning them palm upwards and stroking the flesh. Familiar with Grey's habits, Tran waited expectantly for his former student to sort out what needed saying, and blurt it out bluntly as always. 

"I've found Methos." 

For an instant his mind went blank with surprise. His first thought was, how? Then he thought of Adam Pierson and the Watchers. Pierson must have told Grey. There came the sensation he had almost forgotten over several centuries. The sensation was of a cold, ruthless intent to kill. "Where?" 

Grey stroked the underside of Tran's arms, but Tran only barely felt the touch. He was focused on one thing only. Grey said, "I'm sorry. I found Methos the night Dige died." 

Tran's focus stumbled. His skin prickled and he shook his head. Why didn't you tell me? He was in Seacouver and I could have taken him then! Tran did not say it aloud. It occurred to him that Grey was beating around the bush. That was even more drastically unusual. "Explain," he said curtly. 

Grey twined his fingers around Tran's wrists and held them loosely. Silvery eyes swept into black compassionately. Calm, they said. Be steady, you must be calm. Tran shivered and tipped his head forward in assent. Grey said quietly, "Adam Pierson." 

Tran almost asked what else about Adam Pierson. All at once, several things clicked. For so long, Methos had been a word associated with the loss of his mortal life, the murder of his beloved first teacher Chichinquane, and a thousand-year killing spree across the known mortal world. Now, however, Methos' face was Adam Pierson's. He was a person who had in only two years become firmly entwined with Tran's beloved Grey. A number of scattered memories slipped through his mind. 

Adam Pierson's sudden panic when he thought Grey was fighting MacLeod. Tran had recognized the all too familiar expression of fear that a wonderful opportunity would be lost even before Pierson had a chance to taste it. Pierson melting under Grey's touch in front of the bar. Watching them, the yielding and aggressive hunger he saw from both men echoed in Tran's flesh, and he had felt the faint jealousy he always had to suppress. Grey gone temporarily mad when Dige died, and in that state of mind wanting to challenge MacLeod, who had already proven his superior. Adam Pierson had somehow disarmed him and brought him to his knees. Not using anything but touch and words, Pierson had both calmed and turned Grey aside. 

Too experienced, too rational, too sane to be as young as he looked. Tran had been unable in the pain of that moment to put his finger on what was setting off his subconscious alarms. Too weary and anguished to struggle for more information, Tran had finally let it go. He had sent Grey off with his blessing. "Mariah and I will be together. You need Adam Pierson right now. Regardless of all the half-truths he's told us, he cares about you." 

"Regardless..." Tran murmured. His words haunted him. Proof that he had made the right decision -- to let the mysterious Pierson into Grey's life -- sat in front of him. Grey was steady. He was stronger and sure of himself as he had not been in decades. Pierson's -- Methos' doing? Was there a point where Adam Pierson ended and Methos began? Grey's hands were still wrapped about Tran's lower arms. They were the only source of heat that Tran could feel. The winds coiled about him but made no difference in how cold he felt. It was as though everything in him had come to a halt. His throat felt tight. Suddenly Tran felt the cold and began to shiver. 

Through the desolation of his emotions, he said to Grey, "Let's go back inside." Yet he could not move to stand up. 

Grey, clearly aware of Tran's paralysis, levered his hands under the small Immortal's elbows. With this support, Tran was able to get to his feet. Walking was not so difficult once standing was accomplished. Both men were silent as they returned to the underground home that they shared with Mariah. 

* * *

Hours later, after darkness had claimed the sky, the feeling of paralysis still had not gone away. The cold had settled deeper into his being. When they retired for the night, Mariah stayed very close to him in bed, her arms around his waist. He shifted back into her embrace and closed his eyes, opening himself up. Her warmth reverberated through him, dispelling the cold. 

If there was one person he had done right by in his long life, it was Mariah. He had been her only teacher for that first year after they had found her. While she was still mentally flexible he had taught her everything he could, all the things that Grey and Dige had been unable to learn. He had discovered she had her own special talents to add to the mix, the ability to see and sense the invisible. He had taught her the way he should have taught Grey. 

A century as Tran's slave had left its mark on Grey. What would you have been like? Tran had often wondered. You suffered for the things that happened to me after Chichinquane's death. Grey had retained from that time a certain submissiveness. They had never quite been able to face each other as equals. And Grey certainly was his equal if not his superior in many ways. 

The only time Grey had truly done something he knew Tran did not want him to was when he went after the Kurgan, twenty-two centuries ago. It was the first time he had ever faced a berserker and he had been no match for him. Tran knew it was his deficiencies as a teacher that had handicapped his beloved student, so he made the decision to lose his head if necessary to give Grey a chance to escape. He succeeded in driving the Kurgan into such a rage that the monster forgot about Grey and instead concentrated on crushing Tran. While Tran was dead and being trampled to a pulp, Grey managed to disable the Kurgan. Grey escaped with Tran's body, blamed his over-confidence for what had happened and never showed such initiative again. 

Grey had found Methos and taken him as a lover. Would it have happened if he had known who Methos was from the first? There was no way to know. So he had at last come to Tran to tell him the truth, having made him familiar with the man first. Having made Tran aware of how much the oldest Immortal had done for Grey. Dirty pool, old boy. You did not ask me not to hate him, not to try for his head. Dirty pool. You would not have tried such a thing before. He has somehow made you more independent than I ever did. 

Tran suddenly began to shake from the cold in his soul. "You should have demanded or at least asked it of me," he whispered aloud, not aware he was doing so. 

Mariah's arms tightened around him. "What did Grey say to you? What is wrong?" 

He gasped as his chest ached. He turned in her arms to gaze into her eyes. "He told me where to find Methos." 

She was still, her dark eyes meeting his. "What is it he should have demanded or asked of you?" She gently drew him out. 

"To let Methos alone." His shivering was acute. "He never demands anything of me. He should feel he has the right." 

Mariah kissed his nose, her warm lips fluttering over his skin, easing him. "I will demand of you. Rest tonight. Unless someone takes Adam Pierson's head, Methos will still be there in the morning." 

"Hmm." Tran closed his eyes and tried to relax. All of a sudden, her words sank in and he opened his eyes again. "How did you know?" 

"There isn't anyone else you would feel Grey has the right to ask you not to kill." 

Tran choked on a small laugh. The cold eased off and he snuggled in, his head pillowed on Mariah's chest. "Logical, my lady. Logical." 

* * *

He could not sleep. His thoughts seemed frozen. At last he slipped from bed, careful not to disturb Mariah. At the thought of her, he unfroze a bit and paused to lock in his mind the memory of her sheer, clean beauty, pure grace and sensibility. The time since Dige's death seemed like an opium dream to him. Mariah had come and asked him to make love to her shortly after their return to the farm. So rarely had anyone come to him that way without triggering his revulsion. Very few people felt genuine, healthy desire for him. Was it, he wondered, simply a matter of his proximity and familiarity? Had he taken advantage of her in her bereavement? As his thoughts turned he went numb and icy again. He slipped out the door and dressed in some of his clothes from the clean laundry. 

He crossed their underground complex and entered Dige's suite, which they had not touched at all in over a year. A finger on a switch and the rooms lit. Dust swirled in the air and began to settle as Tran stared around, blinking. 

He almost started laughing. Except for the dust, it seemed as though the suite's owner had just stepped out to check the horses and would be back later. A pile of clothes on one chair that had never been put away. A drawer that was half-open. The portfolio set neatly on the couch caught his eye and he walked over to open it cautiously. 

Dige's artwork. The heading Dige had written on his drawings caught Tran's eye. He stopped breathing and found he had slid to the floor in front of the couch, the fragile papers held in his hands. Seacouver, '96. Tran forcibly drew in a breath and began to leaf through the papers. 

There were a couple of watercolor landscapes, the names of the parks written neatly in the bottom right corners of the paper. They were in rich and vibrant color. There was a painting of Mariah. In it she was surrounded by the symbols of her native language. Behind her were the dim outlines of the types of buildings that had been prevalent in her home region during her youth. The next picture was of Tran himself, done in charcoal and yet it conveyed a sense of color. He was surrounded by great dogs and shadowy forests, his eyes glowing in the darkness. He smiled at the picture, though his heart hurt. 

The next few paintings were of Grey. Tran winced as he recognized the first, drawn from the memory of the day they took Grey from Meerschweine. Like a ghost. The miracle of Immortality made even plainer when he healed after they themselves had shot him to death. The second painting relieved the pain of the first. Grey astride the big, black Fresian. He was tilted half sideways in the saddle and seemed to be looking for something. He had his faint, mischievous smile that they had not seen in so many decades. He, too, was surrounded by shadows. They seemed in one glance to be the branches of fir trees. In the next glance they seemed to be swords. 

The third picture sent a shiver of ... not exactly recognition, more like suppressed desire... through Tran. Grey and Methos outside the bar: Grey on his knees, Methos' leg between his, Methos' fingers pressed tight against Grey's chest. The picture was only a pale echo of the hunger that had radiated from the two men. 

Trembling, Tran set it down. He remembered watching the two of them that night. Tran had not known Dige had witnessed the scene, too. Grey was clearly having a ball seducing the Immortal they thought was Adam Pierson. Tran had been amused, then astonished, when the young man turned the seduction around on Grey. Tran had been forced to move farther away. His sense of their emotions made him uncomfortable and woke desires that usually lay dormant. 

The last picture was a brief study of Methos' face. The eyes in the portrait were mocking and yet somehow sympathetic. It was as if Dige had been unable to decide which impression of Pierson he wanted to draw. The mouth was a sharp line of defiance and challenge. Questioning symbols in several languages surrounded the face. 

Tran sighed and lifted the portfolio to return the pictures to it. Something slid around inside. He reached in and pulled out a folded piece of paper. The Russian word on the front was "Grey." Tran stared blankly at the paper for a long moment, then unfolded it to read. 

_Grey, if you are reading this then I am dead._

Tran dropped the paper and put his pounding head in his hands. Of course. He drew in a deep breath and picked up the paper again. 

_Grey, if you are reading this then I am dead. If MacLeod is as good as his reputation suggests. You came to that bar with him, but then I saw why. I wish... I wish I could have brought the light back to your eyes like he has. Whoever he is. Mariah always tells me that if I want to make love to you I should just do it. Perhaps if this were fifty years ago, before Meerschweine. But then you wouldn't need... whatever it is you need. And I am inadequate. I wouldn't know how to make love to you._

_I do love you, I hope you know that. Remember how I used to fight with Tran? I was jealous, but I didn't know it then. And I am so tired._

_Don't give up. You are alive again, instead of a ghost. No longer a shallow echo of yourself. I, however, have become the ghost. I am ready to be laid to rest, now. With someone worthy like MacLeod, if he can beat me._

_I love you._

_Dige_

Tran bowed his head again between his arms. He strangled a laugh and thought, I knew you were jealous back then. I could feel it steam off of you. What he had not felt was what seemed to be a recent fixation on Grey. My failure. I was keeping a suicide watch over Grey and did not think to do the same for you. Grey was passive but you were active. At first, after the war was over, Tran had attributed Grey's listlessness to the exhaustion they had all felt. As it went on, and Grey nearly died in one of their challenges... Tran had realized it was much more than that. 

He looked at the papers in his hands again. Was that why you finally went back to look for your heritage, Dige? You could do nothing for Grey and needed something to distract you from it? I was not watching. I should have been. 

He had been too absorbed in Grey. 

Tran could not stop himself from remembering how in 1951 they had gone after Slan Quince, whose favorite mode of attack was terrorizing and destroying his opponent's mortal family until he finally issued a challenge. By that time, the opponent was usually so distraught that he or she could not fight well and so died. Tran and the others had no one for Slan to attack. He knew nothing about them, nor that they were together. 

Slan had beat a hasty retreat when he realized he was losing to Dige. Tran had fought him next, defeated him quickly, and left a post-hypnotic suggestion just in case Mariah lost. She did not, but Slan was able to escape from her. That left only Grey. 

Grey had been the last to face Quince, but before the challenge was over a fire started in the warehouse where they were fighting. Tran saw Slan leave the building. When Grey did not emerge, he went in to find out why. 

He found Grey huddled in a dark corner underneath a stairwell, clothes dripping with blood. There were a number of rents in his clothing. Stunned, Tran knelt beside him. An angled gash was healing on his neck, not deep enough to leave a scar but horrifying in its mere existence. Almost more terrifying was the stillness emanating from Grey. It awoke memories long buried. 

After they returned home, Tran had crept into Grey's room. Once, his presence would have awoken his old friend. That time it did not even make Grey stir. Tran laid his fingers on Grey's temples. He concentrated until there was the familiar, disorienting shift of his senses. The world dropped away and only he and the sleeping Grey existed in a pool of darkness. He put his lips next to Grey's ear. "Fight to win," he whispered. He felt Grey pull back slightly and drew on his inner strength to repeat the command. There was a shimmer of sensation as his words passed into Grey, and he withdrew. 

If nothing else, Grey would find it difficult to commit suicide. 

With Dige involved in a search for his roots, it had fallen to Tran (with a great deal of assistance from Mariah) to seek some sort of cure for Grey. Tran had refused to countenance the idea of asking the Immortal priest Darius for help. He did not want Grey to flee onto Holy Ground, which just might happen. Darius was killed a few years ago and the point became moot. Mariah, who had been searching for alternatives, heard of Sean Burns. 

Burns was a psychiatrist famous in the mortal world. By chance Mariah had learned, from someone in Japan, that the man was a fellow Immortal. Gleanings from the rumor mill painted a picture of a gentle man who must possess some strong power of persuasion. "He could make the Sphinx roll over and wriggle like a puppy if he wanted to," was the statement Mariah had quoted, smiling. 

Mariah had first seen Duncan MacLeod the day of Sean Burns' death. She arrived at the estate that day and just been dithering over how to introduce herself when the Quickening lit the sky. It went on and on until the darkness settled down. Mariah had run towards it, then carefully peered over a wall. 

It was not hard to recognize Duncan MacLeod. In the last few years he had become a name to be reckoned with and they would be challenging him soon. He was aggressively intimidating another Immortal who she could not identify from this angle. The most peculiar thing, to Mariah, was that it was the unidentified man who held a sword. He looked uncomfortable with it, miserable as he used it to shield himself from MacLeod. Her eyes fell on a limp form sprawled near the two men. She knew without a doubt that it was Sean Burns. 

MacLeod seethed. He broadcast a curious combination of emotions, almost all corrupt. Lust, rage, sadistic joy. Yet, somewhere within it she thought she caught a wail of horror. 

She had also felt like wailing. She returned to the farm and described the incident to Tran. Then she and Dige went camping together for ten days. 

Tran shook his head. Mariah, he knew now, had not sought out Sean Burns only for Grey but for Dige, as well. She had been oddly resigned when she returned to the farm. When she told him what had happened, he had felt that way, too. At some point, Mariah must have decided she had done everything she could do for Dige, and had stopped trying. By the time Dige succeeded in getting himself killed, Mariah had already been mourning his death for a year. 

  


He got to his feet. No more living in the past, he thought. Yet he felt so rootless in the present. How did Methos live with HIS past? Grey loved the Oldest Immortal but then, he tended to love blindly. Tran held the note against his chest. A goodbye, and careful silence so that no one knew what Dige had been up to. That was the only way. He slipped the note back into the portfolio with the portraits and returned it to its resting place. Gathering himself to his feet, he shut the lights off and crossed their complex again, this time going towards Grey's suite. He walked into the sense of Grey's presence, felt it seep into him and level out. As he stepped through the doors, the light came on in Grey's bedroom. Tran found himself hesitant. This would have been much easier if Grey was asleep. He stepped into the bedroom. Grey had his head tilted and was regarding him from the bed, eyes worried. Tran felt numb. "You weren't asleep." 

"Neither were you," Grey replied, smiling slightly. His smile faded to a look of concern. "You look... ill." 

Do I? thought Tran. He shivered. A vision obscured his sight. Grey's face, ashen where it was not slick with blood, eyes staring blindly. This vision was not new, and Tran shook his head to wipe it away. "You did drop a bombshell on me," he said, trying to sound normal. 

Grey held out his hand, inviting Tran onto the bed. Tran stared at the hand blankly, his mind stopping for a moment. His throat constricted. He swallowed hard and stepped closer to Grey. He dragged his gaze from the hand to Grey's eyes and reached out. The moment their hands touched, he slammed his Quickening out. One harsh blow with his thoughts and Grey crumpled unconscious in the bed. Trembling, Tran stroked the man's face helplessly. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry," he whispered. "You won't blame yourself if you sleep through it." There was a fallacy to that logic and he knew it, but he tore himself away. Stopping only to don his winter gear, he fled the house for the airstrip. Climbing into the ultralight, he stopped halfway in and turned to look back towards his family. 

Mariah, he reached out. 

She woke instantly and touched back at him. Startlement rang as she saw the plane through his eyes. Then quick demand: Don't do this! 

He shook his head. Please, take care of Grey for me. Tell him it wasn't his fault. It would have happened, sooner or later. He closed his mind to her furious protests. Minutes later he was airborne. 

I always knew I should have bought a second plane, Mariah thought as she ran to Grey's room. His presence washed around her and she shouted his name. She paused in mid-step when she realized there was no answer. That only stopped her for a second, though, and she quickly entered his bedroom. Oh, no. Grey was slumped sideways on the bed, unmoving. She breathed a sigh of relief when she realized there was no blood. Whatever Tran had done would not be complicated by the need to heal a physical injury. She jumped onto the bed. 

She cradled Grey's face between her palms. She almost laughed at her own thoughts: My mind to your mind. She shut out the room around her and opened her other senses to reach Grey. 

His spirit shimmered, save for the mass of darkness that blurred and distorted much of it. She felt a quick sorrow. If she were Tran, she would have just slashed at the mass, tearing it open and forcing Grey awake in agony. Tran was not gentle about these things, as he had not been gentle when he knocked Grey out. She was not Tran and was glad of it. This would take longer, but it was something she had always wanted to do for Grey. 

Grey, she reached in to him. Tran's gone after Methos. He's gone after him in my plane. We have to warn Methos or he will kill him! 

There was a vague, confused stirring around her. The shimmer encountered the blackness laid there by Tran and subsided. Mariah cursed to herself. She intensified her efforts, desperately. TRAN WILL KILL METHOS, OR METHOS WILL KILL HIM!!! 

The stirring around her increased, Grey shifting, shaking, trying to wake. He pushed at the darkness, then suddenly shied away from it. Mariah noticed then that some of the darkness stank of age. This was not the time to wonder at it. Her despair was genuine and she used it to attract his attention. I love him, she thought. He'll go like Dige if he can't kill Methos. You know that. 

Grey shivered and heaved at the darkness. It was slow and painful going, Mariah letting him rest against her when he grew tired. She did not shift his attention to the more ancient darkness. Perhaps someday they could address that and learn what lay beneath it. There was no time, now. 

The room swam into focus around them. Grey curled up and pressed his palms against his temples as the pain of the struggle subsided. His voice was thick when he spoke. "You said he's taken the plane?" 

She nodded. "Do you know how glad I am, that for once you went against his will?" 

Grey lifted his head to look at her, blinking with a lack of comprehension. He shook his head and scrambled out of the bed. "Let's go. He'll be a day ahead of us at the least." 

"He has left everything, Grey," she said, as calmly as she could. 

He stopped in the midst of gathering clothes to gaze a question at her. 

"Everything. He does not have his passport or any money. That will slow him down." Grey's face went white with dismay and self-recrimination. Mariah quickly put her fingers on his lips. "He said it was not your fault, that it would have happened sooner or later. Believe him." 

"I should have softened the blow, somehow." 

"How?" Mariah asked. "Grey, we must warn Adam -- I mean, Methos." 

Grey shook his head fiercely. "I can't do that to him." 

She lifted her head in surprise. "You can't attempt to save his life?" 

He leaned down and rested his forehead against hers. "It's hard to say which of them I would be betraying by interfering. Methos is definitely a match for Tran. And if I warn him...." Grey stopped speaking and let out a long sigh. "If I do, I don't think I'll be able to stop myself from begging him not to kill Tran. Time and chance happen to us all. I knew the risk when I decided to tell the truth." 

Mariah stroked Grey's cheek, understanding. "Then perhaps we should not go at all." 

Grey kissed her hand. "I must go," he grinned with a surge of mischief, "now that you've woken me. Perhaps I can turn Tran aside if I can find him. I don't want to lose either of them." 

They dressed, collecting their paperwork and Tran's. As Tran had taken the plane, they would have to drive. Someone had to tend the horses and dogs while they were gone. They would have to go first to the Ymeragas, their nearest neighbors, apologize profusely for disturbing them in the middle of the night and beg for help because of an emergency that could not be truly explained. The nearest airfield was a six-hour drive away. From there they would have to take a plane to the International Airport, which was liable to take four more hours. Then there was the flight to Paris. 

Paris at night was a glittering gem from the sky. Tran had appropriated a child's ticket and convinced the family that they wanted to stay one more day before they returned to France. The stewardesses were very kind to him, a child whose family obviously had sent him home early. Seeing his tired, distressed look, they coddled and mothered him. Their kindness allowed him some release from the turmoil in his mind, and he slept half the flight. Going through customs had made him recall seeing the movie Star Wars over two decades earlier. "You don't need to see his identification," he muttered to himself as he left, feeling a slightly hysterical amusement. Already he felt caught in an undertow as mesmerism drained his strength. He shivered, wondering just how insane he must be to have forgotten all of his ID. 

Adam Pierson was not in the phone book. A check with the operator revealed he had an unlisted number. Tran would have to wait until daytime to get into the city records. The crafty eldest Immortal just might have his records flagged so that if anyone asked for them he would know he was being tracked. Perhaps Tran could find one of those Watchers? He could think of no way to look. He himself attracted people's attention, being a small Asian child out in the midst of the night. A surge of anger passed through him whenever a car slowed down, its driver perusing him with a hopeful expression. 

Someone was following him. Three young men had detached themselves from the front of a building and were slowly closing the distance between them. Not Watchers, he was sure, remembering how Melinda Krager had been alone and totally inconspicuous. He tasted their feelings. Covetous greed, malicious boredom and a low flame of lust. A sneer curled his lip, the cold rage inside him seething. He turned into an alleyway innocently. They followed him in and began speaking. He knew French, but paid no attention to their words. He watched them as they formed a circle about him. One of them snatched at him then caught his jacket, lifting him up. Without a thought he sliced one of his blades through the youth's throat. A gurgle and the body went down like a puppet whose strings had abruptly been cut. There was an instant before realization set in to the other two. Tran killed one before the youth thought to run. The other made it two meters, screaming, before Tran's dagger caught him in the back of the neck. 

He killed the three vicious adults in the space of a breath. He had not lost his touch. This recalled the old days, before he had taken Grey. That thought tore through the cold in his being and knotted his throat. My god. He stood frozen for a moment, then snatched his dagger from the boy's body and fled into the night. 

When he was far from the scene of his crime and the sound of police sirens, he made his way up to the top of a building. He huddled on the roof and curled around the insistent pain in his chest. He rubbed his eyes. Mariah's going to be so angry, he thought helplessly. Grey would not, but Mariah would be. Mother, daughter and sister to me. I have to find Methos, now. 

The sense of urgency he felt he could not have explained. Time seemed very short. He composed himself where he sat, calmed the flowing thoughts in his mind. The panic and rage settled as old disciplines took hold. His mind went utterly steady, then he let go. He spread out, to lie like a thin blanket over the city. The distant Presences of other Immortals tugged at him. The unaware signals of three fairly young ones, less than a century old. The shifting Presences of three others who were some centuries old. Tran did not bother to count the centuries. One was probably Duncan MacLeod. Grey had said MacLeod spent time in Paris. The shimmering, laughing proximity of one who was close to Mariah's age. He could find no others at this level. Seven Immortals in his standard range, not a one old enough to be Methos. 

Was Methos truly in Paris? He would have to go deeper. 

"It is dangerous to go too far," the Immortal who had taught both Tran and Grey had told them long ago. "The farther you reach out, the more difficult will be the experience of returning to your body." Tran shrugged and put the memory aside for now. 

The distant Immortals suddenly loomed close, their Quickenings crowding around him, tugging at him. His sense of self spun precariously. He tipped, his own energy brushing against someone else's. Thoughts and images drifted through him, so hazy he could not make any sense of them. Tran blew himself out, feeling hollow and empty as he shifted still deeper. At this level the Immortal signals rang shrilly in him. He was beginning to lose focus when an anomaly attracted him. 

There was a whisper among the bells. A voice that had once been great was now reduced to an almost doddering murmur. It went its own way among the louder voices, aware of nothing but itself. Tran focused on it and held its sound and tone within himself until he had an absolute sense of its location. Could this be Methos? He began to draw himself together to move his body. 

His cry echoed across the rooftop. He covered his ears to the sound then snatched his hands away as his flesh burned. Staggering to his feet, he struggled over to the chimney and huddled against it, pressing his hands and body against the solid bricks. Their cold, hard reality grated on him but helped him balance. He calmed his frantic breathing. He concentrated, thinking intently, "zero squared zero, one squared one, two squared four, three squared nine, four squared sixteen...." He was in the thousands before he could think clearly or feel safe letting go of the bricks. Thankfully, he no longer felt that the building was moving out from under him. There remained a sensation of brilliant flashing. Every step he took was as if he had never felt it before. Moving as fast as he felt he had to, he did not stop to marvel. The sensations became grating. He ignored them and went down into the streets of Paris. He would find the place that signal had been. He would find out what it was. 

Three hours later, at around two a.m., Tran broke into an old, brick building. He was very close to the source of the signal, but now he felt nothing. It had been a very strange, vague signal. Once inside, he stood and closed his eyes, listening to the building. The steady breathing of sleeping people, the building fairly well ventilated. Nothing unusual. He shook himself again. The alarming new feeling had worn off after an hour or so, leaving an incredible fatigue in its place. The sense of urgency still drove him as he stepped through a doorway leading to where the signal had been. 

He knew it was there, though he could not feel it. He looked at the crib beside him. A cheap construct. There were four others in the room just like it. This must be an orphanage. His eyes were drawn to the baby sleeping in the crib. The child was approximately one year old. Soft, downy hair curled on its head. The tiny, rosebud lips were parted as it breathed. The delicate perfection of its hands was a marvel of creation. He glanced at the small name-card. Etienne-Stuart. Suddenly he realized what the signal was that had drawn him to this place. The baby was Immortal. Or he would be. Shaken to the core, Tran sank down beside the crib. A baby Immortal like Hamzad, whom they had found one thousand and eleven years ago, when they still lived south of the Caspian Sea. The memories unfolded, blinding him to the present. 

**987 AD**

"I heard something," Mariah said. She reined in her horse and cast about, listening. 

Craggy rocks and desert sand surrounded them. It was late in the day, the winds still hot. The sound of the wind blowing was like a keening ghost among the rocks. Mariah's three companions heard nothing unusual, but they waited patiently. Mariah was sensitive and nervous sometimes. They knew to be patient until she had settled with whatever had disturbed her. Their desert garb fluttered in the winds as they waited. Mariah urged her horse forward and then to the right, leaning that way in her saddle, head tilted as though to catch the slightest anomalous sound. She dismounted. Leaving her horse standing patiently, she began weaving her way among the rocks. 

He opened his senses and cast out to see what had attracted the girl's attention. For a moment he sensed nothing unusual, then he realized what it was. It was not a sound that had drawn Mariah away. An ache in the air, fear, incomprehension, hunger and thirst. She had not learned yet to ignore such things. There were too many people so distressed in the world and he and his friends were too few to help them. 

Mariah cried out and bent down amongst the rocks. Tran, Grey and Dige dismounted and hurried to see what she had found. Alarmingly, she had taken off her headgear, freeing her long, thick black hair. She was wrapping the cloth around something, all the while murmuring soft, meaningless noises. 

She looked up at Grey as they gathered around her. "He needs milk," she pleaded, for Grey's mare had a foal at her side. 

There in her arms was a tiny baby, probably no more than a few days old if that. It was covered in dust, and its lips were cracked. The rocks it had lain among had largely sheltered it from the sun. Tran stared at it in surprise. Where could the tiny speck of life have come from? There had been no caravans through the pass in days and they never traveled with a woman as pregnant as that. Perhaps a slave had borne the babe and her owners had abandoned it. 

Grey had already dashed away. He returned with a bowl of fresh milk and a clean cloth. They soaked the cloth and then let the milk drip into the baby's mouth. Their attention was totally absorbed in the child, leaving Tran and Dige out and feeling bewildered. Footsteps from behind them caught their attention but it was Achmed, and they relaxed. He greeted them with a nod and a smile, and then stared in surprise at the baby. 

"May I inspect the infant?" he asked Mariah softly. She nodded and let him unwrap the small bundle. Achmed studied the little body carefully until he found a small, oddly shaped birthmark. Upon seeing it, he and Mariah exchanged understanding glances. The girl held the baby close, while the mortal was clearly inclined to keep it far from himself. 

"The mark means bad luck," Mariah explained quietly. "I think he's had enough of that, don't you?" She did not look at the others, but gazed hopefully into Grey's face. "Let us raise him," she said. 

At her words, Tran's hackles rose. Raise a mortal? It was difficult enough becoming attached to an adult and losing them! He opened his mouth to protest and met Grey's anguished eyes. He thinned his lips in refusal and the tall man bowed his head. 

Seemingly unaware of this exchange, Mariah turned to Tran and pushed the tiny, living bundle into his arms. "He's so small, Tran. For that mark, no one will care for him. If he lives he will not even have a dog's life. We are the only ones." 

Tran's arms closed around the infant even as he stuttered in fury, "We can't raise a baby!" His protest lost much of its force as he found himself taking the milk-soaked cloth and feeding the helpless creature. It hurt to hear the tiny sounds the baby made. So little to be so unwanted. He turned to Dige for help, but the other man was watching Mariah with his usual besotted expression. Tran sighed in exasperation. He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to this. Grey would obey him out of habit. Dige could be intimidated into line. Mariah, however, cut his defenses full of holes and moved through his emotions like water through a sieve. He had sought to harden himself against her influence and thus far failed. It was strange that the one person he could not dominate should be a young woman. Then again, perhaps it was not. Her experiences after first death had not been far different than his after he had lost his teacher. That gave him empathy for her that he did not feel for Dige, and had not felt for Grey until it was too late. And this little baby... he gave in. A mortal could suffer unspeakable horrors and not live long enough to recover. If they raised him, they could make sure this boy would be strong and have a happy youth behind him. 

Ten years passed unmarked except by the growth of the boy, whom they named Hamzad. One morning, Tran stood on the cliff over their canyon and listened as intently as he could with all of his skills. Nothing, still. He had stood there for hours trying to focus on the source of his unease. It had troubled his dreams during the night with the stench of blood and the memories of his last few challenges. It remained a subtle tang disturbing both him and Mariah at the morning meal. She and Dige had gone to ride the perimeter, searching for anything unusual. Grey tended to Achmed, who was in his final decline. 

Youthful minds suddenly shifted into his range. Hamzad and his friends. Tran frowned. If something terrible was going to happen, perhaps he should send the children away. 

Suddenly the unease clarified itself into an absolute sense of a latent Immortal. Startled, Tran turned toward the trail the children were coming up. There was a sudden rush of hoofbeats. The horses rounded a corner and raced up the trail. Seeing Tran ahead, their riders began reining them in. Hamzad was at the front, Tran noticed with some pride. The boy was shaping into an extremely talented rider. Which of them was the young Immortal, he wondered. Then he knew and a sense of panic washed over him. 

Hamzad! 

The boy saw the shock on Tran's face and leaped down from his horse. Tran dug his fingers into his palms to prevent himself from shouting, "Be careful!" As Hamzad joined him, Tran suddenly noticed for the first time that the boy was taller than he was. He thought, How time does pass. Not for him, as soon as he does something foolish and gets killed. 

Memories swamped Tran. Hamzad up trees, climbing cliffs, trying to go down the well to see where the water came from. Ill with one or another childhood sickness that was known to kill. As an infant, abandoned and exposed to die. 

Tran flinched back in surprise as a hand waved in front of his face. "Uncle Tran? What is it?" Hamzad was asking. 

Too close to the cliff edge! Tran suddenly thought. He grabbed the boy's arm and moved them both away. "Nightmares," he replied truthfully. "Send your friends home. I'm having premonitions...." Half-truths. He was having terrifying visions of the boy dying in any number of ways. 

Calming himself and pretending nothing was wrong proved worthwhile for more than one reason. The pang of amusement he felt when Grey dropped the tray of dirty dishes he was carrying from Achmed's quarters made Tran feel better. He almost laughed when Dige and Mariah returned later and stood frozen in the doorway, their mouths hanging open in shock as realization hit. He could not laugh at the bewildered Hamzad. The boy could see the shock that each member of his family obviously felt. He began to look very nervous. 

They had been careful, with Achmed's help, to raise Hamzad in the beliefs and customs of the region. Someday the boy would seek a wife and a life. They did not want him crippled in society by ignorance. All the things they had taught him all these years had suddenly taken on new meaning. All of the cautions they had given him became of deadly importance. Do not eat too fast; do not climb up there; keep your injuries clean; do not burn yourself. 

He had always known his birthmark signified ill luck, but it was not until his parents began acting horribly over-protective that he thought to be afraid. It took a few days for that fear to be replaced by annoyance then exasperation, and finally anger. 

"Just leave me alone!" he shouted at them one evening. He snatched up the tray of food for their mortal friend and stomped into Achmed's quarters, leaving the beaded curtains waving wildly behind him. The four mature Immortals stared after him in various degrees of guilty concern. 

Grey suddenly chuckled from his seat on the pillows. "If I'd known he was one of us when we found him, I would've gone insane with worry in that first year." 

"I would have taken his head when he was two," growled Tran half-heartedly. 

Mariah laughed and shook her head at them. "We're driving HIM crazy. We must..." she shook her head again and sat down on the pillows around the low table. A tear escaped the wall of her eyelashes. "If we can't treat him normally again, we must foster him out or he will hate us." 

Dige sat up urgently. "We can't do that. We can't cut him off from us no matter how angry he is. Not without explanation." 

They were still arguing the matter very quietly when Hamzad came out of Achmed's quarters. He looked calmer. He turned to Tran. "Uncle Achmed is calling for you." 

Tran took a long, slow breath when he stepped into the room. The sweet-scents managed to cover the smells of old age, but they were so thick in the room it made it difficult to willingly draw a breath. He knelt beside Achmed's bed and looked at the man fondly. The once-heavy black hair was white and wispy; the skin so thin Achmed's skull was sharply visible within. The lively dark eyes remained and turned, twinkling, on Tran. 

"He's one of you," the old man stated, smiling. "I wondered." 

Startled, Tran gaped at Achmed, taking a moment to pull himself together. "Does he know?! Why did you wonder?" 

The thin, cracked lips spread wider, the ancient eyes twinkled even more. "He had to have been there for days before we found him. Babes have remarkable powers of recuperation, but I think if he was a mortal babe he would have died." Achmed reached up, his bony hand trembling until it settled upon Tran's hair. He stroked the fine strands paternally. "He doesn't know. He is simply frustrated. And you," Achmed let his hand slip down to cup Tran's chin, "are afraid he will be like you. An eternal child." 

"He's so reckless," Tran said softly. 

"Not more than any mortal child. Let go and trust in fate." The man turned his head to look at his journals piled against the side wall. He stared glumly at them for a time, then shifted his head back to Tran. "Why didn't you know he was Immortal before?" 

Tran laughed half-heartedly. "We sense each other, you know. Yet until a few days ago, we didn't sense him. We have raised him and somehow we never felt anything different about him from any mortal child." 

Achmed looked thoughtful. "Perhaps that is what keeps the babes safe, that their elders cannot sense them." He let his hand fall back to the bedcovers, tiring. He stared hard at Tran for a quick moment. "Don't you think he looks like Mariah?" 

Tran shrugged. "I suppose he does. They were both born around here." 

Achmed smiled. "Relatively speaking. Something in the set of his body and face reminds me of Grey, too." 

There was another moment of meeting the mortal's mischievous eyes before Tran made the connection. It was over ten years ago that Grey and Mariah had been... well, it was all very strange and Tran had never known quite what to make of it so he had said nothing. Then suddenly Mariah was with Dige instead. Shocked, Tran asked, "Do you know something I don't know?" 

Achmed shook his head on the blankets. "No, but I have always wondered where baby Immortals come from." 

"So have I, old friend. So have I." 

It was the hardest thing they would ever have to do. Once again they allowed Hamzad to play with his friends and help on the farm. They began teaching him to handle a blade. In the midst of everything, Achmed Al Khazar died, and all five of them mourned his loss. 

Hamzad topped out at nearly the same height as Dige but had a stockier build. He grew a beard to match the one Grey had taken to sporting and Tran had to admit that the two of them did look very similar, though the youngster's eyes were as dark as Mariah's. Hamzad left them to seek his fortune when he was twenty-two years old. It cost them a great deal not to go with him. Hamzad was young and the world held many wonders. 

It was two centuries later that Tran was standing on that same cliff edge as when he had first learned Hamzad was Immortal. Just standing, daydreaming, when he sensed someone coming. He chose to stand and watch in the name of hope. The man was dressed in rich clothing and rode a perfect, finely boned desert horse. He reined the animal in, leaped down and strode confidently toward Tran. He was weather beaten, his face covered in laugh-lines. He had a salt-and-pepper beard that reminded Tran very much of Grey's. He had been in his late forties when his first death took him. He radiated confidence and bemused delight. It was momentarily disrupted by startlement before the bemusement returned in force. 

"Uncle Tran," he greeted the smaller Immortal affectionately. 

"Hamzad," Tran replied, having to force the name through his suddenly tight throat. 

Hamzad had come to pay his respects to the four peculiar hermits who had raised him. He had never allowed himself to hope that any of them were Immortals. 

**The Present**

The dim room lit by nightlights came into focus around Tran. Fighting the fatigue that dragged at him, he pulled himself up to stand looking down at Etienne-Stuart. He puzzled over the impression he had received while scanning. He must have misunderstood. His impression of former greatness had to have been the sense of the baby's full Immortality which would begin to show in perhaps a decade. He reached down and let his thumb rest in the baby's tiny palm. The small hand curled reflexively around his touch. Tran closed his eyes and thought, Shall we do it again, Mariah? Raise another baby? Hamzad's face arose in his mind but it was neither child nor young man. Hamzad had become an Immortal when he was fully mature, and he was incredibly self-confident. 

Tran opened his eyes and shook his head. What am I thinking? Yet he picked up the baby carefully and held him close, breathing in the faint milky scent of his skin. "Etienne-Stuart," he whispered, to fix the name in his memory. He set the baby back down as a wave of exhaustion threatened to swamp him. Barely able to stand, he made his way down the hall. Passing a desk he snatched up some paper and a pencil before he found a storeroom. Retreating into it, he jammed the door shut. He leaned against the wall and began writing. When he finished, he had three separate notes that he folded carefully together and pocketed. He threw clean laundry from a shelf onto the floor for bedding, shut off the light and fell into a fitful slumber. 

He slept only a few hours, waking when he heard the sounds of people moving in the halls of the orphanage. He was still exhausted, but the sense of urgency from the night before had returned. He slipped out of the building and wandered the streets of Paris. 

He walked for hours until finally his legs were trembling. He had only been vaguely aware of his own exhaustion before but now he had to sit down. He sat at the base of a statue and rested his head on his knees, closing his eyes. Tired as he was, he could not keep out the vague sense of the people near him. Most were self-absorbed. Now and then someone noticed him and felt sympathy, but moved on. 

There was the barest brush of another Immortal. Tran was too disheartened to look up. The sense blossomed full and leveled out. The other could surely sense him but broadcast a resolute blandness. Tran opened his eyes and shifted his head to look about, curious. There the tall, trenchcoated form was amongst the many people on the sidewalk. If he had not already known Adam Pierson, he would never have been able to identify the other Immortal. Tran could not move, he was so surprised to have found the other man. A slight shift of stance, a tilt of the head as if to relieve a crick in the neck, and Methos looked at him. With his exhaustion, the emptiness in his stomach, Tran felt admiration. To see five thousand years of experience go into looking inconspicuous was something of a treat. 

Methos was on his way to Shakespeare  & Company when he sensed the other Immortal. He shrugged it off. Friends would announce themselves. An enemy would follow him. For anyone else Methos could do anonymous face in the crowd. It was his favorite trick he had learned from Watchers. The other was nearby, though, and Methos shifted slightly to see if he could spy without obviously looking. Good lord. 

The small boy staring at him from the foot of a statue was Tran. He looked ragged and exhausted, his eyes dark pits. Then he seemed to come out of his shock. His eyes blazed with the fire of obsession. He stood in a fluid motion and crossed the street straight toward Methos who thought sadly, You've gone and done it to me again, haven't you Grey? Just like with Cassandra. If only this turns out half as well.... The oldest Immortal had no doubt that it was full recognition burning within those black eyes. 

He stood up tall and shoved his hands deep into his pockets, tilting his head slightly down to the small man and smiling in greeting. "Hello, Tran. Where is Grey?" The question, meant to imply that he had no idea that Tran was after him, had a surprising effect. Tran stopped in mid-step. The blaze in his eyes snuffed out. Worried, Methos asked quickly, "Is he all right?" 

Tran stood motionless, staring blankly towards Methos for a long moment. He said quietly, "He is fine. At home, sleeping." 

Methos let his shoulders sag with the relief he felt. However, he was confused. "Sleeping?" he queried. Tran shrugged noncommittally. Methos watched the eyes flicker back to life and burn brightly again. They were attracting some interested glances from passersby. There was no point in pretending that he did not know why Tran was there. Methos spun lightly on one heel. "Come on," he called back over his shoulder and strode off. 

Methos allowed his long, strolling stride to carry him forward, forcing the small man to make an effort to keep up. With luck, Tran might drop from exhaustion. Methos smiled wryly to himself. Unfortunately there was no chance of that. Tran would keep coming until one of them lost his head. Methos had seen that obsessed expression before. There was no help for it if he wanted to live and oh, he did. 

He ignored it when he felt Tran move in close. He pretended not to notice that the smaller Immortal dropped something into his pocket. Whatever this was, it was light and caused no change in Methos' balance. It could wait until later. 

They left behind the crowded streets and strolled down side paths where people were fewer, but still appearing often enough to make it safe for him to keep his back to Tran. As soon as they stepped into a little-frequented area, Methos stopped and turned to allow Tran to come up beside him. They stood two meters apart and met each other's eyes. Methos said calmly, "We don't have to do this." 

Once again Tran's eyes, which had been speculative, went blank. "Yes, we do." 

Methos studied him, wondering what the small man was hiding. He struck with his words, voice soft and thrumming. "I have grown quite attached to your Grey." 

For an instant the blankness broke and shivered with pain that triggered anger. "Don't bring him into this," Tran hissed. 

"How can I not? You would never have identified me if not for him." 

The bland statement had its desired effect. Tran's body was visibly shaking. His eyes shied away from Methos' then snapped back resolutely. "I made him sleep. This will be over before he wakes." 

Methos rested his weight on his heels and let the corners of his mouth turn down disapprovingly. "I am sure that will comfort him and he will feel absolved of all responsibility." 

"He is not responsible! I would have found you sooner or later!" There was a rising hysteria in Tran's voice. His tight control was breaking. 

In his life Methos had learned that it took a great shock to sway an obsessed individual off course. He had been considering the Tran situation for some time. He hardened his voice and played his trump cards. Grey was Tran's weakness. "He told me how you found him and took him from his people. You shaved his beard and embedded a chain in his neck to remind him at all times that he was your slave. He couldn't sleep for a year! You --" Methos stopped as he realized what had struck him as odd about Grey's story. Tran no longer looked menacing, but trapped. Methos asked gently, "What else did you do to him?" 

Tran closed his eyes and backed away a few steps, his shoulders hunched. "Grey... doesn't remember much about that first year." 

"I suspected as much," Methos replied softly. "He only seems to remember being always afraid. He attributes that to the chain." 

Tran turned his head away from Methos. He straightened his shoulders and stopped shaking. Once again he turned his blank black eyes to stare at the other man. "Challenge, killer." 

Methos thought, Do you really think you can take me while you're in this condition? He said nothing and nodded his head in a resigned manner. I'm not beaten yet, though. If there is a way for both of us to survive this I will find it. We lose so much in our lives. My Grey shouldn't have to lose you after so long. 

They took it to the caverns under the city. The underground chamber they found was musty. The sound of dripping water echoed throughout the space. Lights left and forgotten by maintenance crews had gone yellowy with age. They cast distorted shadows around the two men who had entered the chamber. Tran discarded his heavy jacket and stood lightly, the two Wakizashi held easy in his hands. Methos sighed and drew his own Ivanhoe sword. There was a long moment of inaction as the two men sized each other up. 

It was Tran who moved first when it became apparent that Methos would not attack him. He flowed across the room to strike from Methos' left. A shift and the strike made no contact. Methos pivoted to keep Tran in front of him. The small man moved in for another strike in the same manner. This time he came in closer, forcing Methos to parry the Wakizashi. The old Immortal was careful not to extend himself. It was better if his opponent misjudged his reach. Tran's strategy, both recorded by the Watchers and remembered from MacLeod's account of their challenge, was to largely stay out of his opponent's reach and inflict debilitating injuries until exhaustion diminished his opponent's skill. Of course, thought Methos, you've been careful in the past never to come into a challenge dead tired yourself. 

He fought a defensive battle for now. The fact that he made no attempt to attack forced Tran to come in closer, or the fight would have simply petered out. Tran came in several times trying to stab with his blades, but Methos was able to cross both with his larger blade and force the other to disengage. He was aware that the small Immortal was becoming careless. Reviewing the patterns of the fight so far he found a repeating theme that stunned him so badly he almost missed the next parry. He laughed wryly to himself and thought, Grey, if it hadn't been for you I wouldn't have let this go on long enough to notice. 

He went on the offensive, driving Tran back. The exhausted man took a brief second to register the change in strategy and with a fierce grin tried to dive under Methos' blade and stab him. Methos called on skills he rarely showed and took to the air, leaping over Tran. Not meeting the expected resistance, the small man tumbled and rolled back to his feet easily. Methos deliberately twisted his face into an angry expression and shouted, "Enough!" Tran sneered back at him and came whirling in to attack again from Methos' left. 

Methos triggered the spring and felt the firm weight of his other blade settle into his hand. Tran had expected him to avoid the strike. Methos thrust his smaller sword through the other Immortal's stomach, and the Wakizashi never touched him but slid skittering across the floor. He felt a twinge of sympathy for the agony he knew the other must feel. He released his smaller blade and spun, bringing his long sword around for the blow that would end this challenge.


	2. I Pray the Lord My Soul To Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grey and Mariah get to Paris. Methos shares his memories with Tran.

  
  
**Riding into Light: Quickening...dige**   


Special thanks to my betas, Nancy, Dvorah and Sara, for asking all the  
important questions and catching spelling, grammatical, and other such  
mistakes. Highlander is copyright 1997 Davis/Panzer Productions. Methos  
belongs to them. Grey, Mariah and Tran (amongst a few others) are my  
doing!

  
**Part 1: Are You Not Coming?**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

This was Adam Pierson's apartment. Here Methos lived as a shadow of himself. The Watchers knew who and what he was, but only a very few Immortals knew that Pierson was in actuality Methos. Grey opened the door heavily. He had never been here before, but the eldest had given him the address and a key when they had vacationed in San Francisco. 

It was a spacious, one-room flat. When Mariah hit the light switch, the color scheme proved grayish-white. They grinned faintly at each other when their eyes lit on the large, wooden chair across the flat. Mariah murmured, "Fit for a king." 

The flat was clean. It barely looked lived in, as if perhaps Methos had yet to decide what personal objects to bring there besides his heavy chair. There was a nice couch, however. Grey shut and locked the door behind them, then hung their coats on the coat rack near the door. He moved across the flat and slumped on the couch. "Now we wait." 

Mariah sighed and sat down next to him. "For how long?" 

He smiled apologetically. "Not much of a plan, is it?" 

She grimly looked down at her feet. "Oh, it has some very interesting elements. Take one barely-rational Immortal and throw him at another who's had a long history of surviving anything life sends his way to see who comes back." 

Grey was silent for a moment. Then he said softly, "He won't get better, you know that." 

She clenched her fists on her knees. "If that's your reasoning why don't you just kill him yourself?!" 

"I couldn't --" 

"You could. And we BOTH know it." 

Grey slid his fingers under hers. "I didn't compromise Methos just to put Tran out of his misery. I think Methos can do something for Tran that I can't." 

Mariah sniffed, lifting her right hand to wipe the tears from her eyes, and looked resolutely at him. "And what is that?" 

Grey smiled slightly. "Show him how to live." 

Mariah tilted her head and frowned at him. She stopped speaking, having too many things to say and relying on their long existence in each other's lives to fill in the silence. Grey closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against hers. They breathed in together and both sighed. 

"When I first met Methos, he was depressed. But you know what he said to me? He said, 'I don't want to die.' He actively didn't want to die." 

Mariah lifted her head and gazed at him with sudden understanding. "Oh, Grey." 

"He wasn't --" his throat closed and he could not speak for a moment. He nudged his nose against hers. "He wasn't enduring every day just because of an over-developed sense of responsibility to me. He was -- he IS alive." He fell silent again, for a long moment. They leaned against each other and he asked, "Do you remember when we challenged Slan?" 

She nodded against his shoulder. "Yes. You are the best of us and yet he nearly killed you. That's how we knew you were... ill." 

"You beat Slan." 

She snickered softly. "I know. I was there." 

"After we returned home, Tran came to me while I was sleeping. He reached into me to lay a compulsion. That woke me. He told me to fight to win." 

Mariah lifted her head and stared at him in puzzlement. "You were aware?" 

".... Yes. I was aware of many things. I might have ignored it except.... I've never known so well what he was feeling. I always knew he loved me, but I never knew how little he loved himself. So I stopped trying to die." 

"Which is not the same as trying to live." 

Grey nodded agreement. "It was a stalemate. We were keeping each other alive. But now, though I will grieve if he dies, I will not make it an excuse to end my life as I almost did when Dige died. Now that he knows I am safe --" 

"He'll stop trying to live," she finished. She looked at him steadily. 

He cocked his head, a little smile coiling the edges of his lips. "But you know what I do whenever I'm losing?" 

"You CHEAT!" Mariah answered, drawn to laugh in spite of herself. 

Grey laughed, too. "I do NOT cheat," he answered her with mock indignation, "I change the rules. I add wild cards. Methos is one of my secret weapons." 

She snorted. "You didn't by chance tell him this, did you?" 

He shook his head. "They're on their own. I've done what I could to force change on Tran. Methos... Methos is the definition of change. He will do what he must in order to survive." He rubbed his nose against hers, an apologetic gesture. "Mariah, do you love him?" 

She drew back in surprise and stared at him. "Of course I love him. I've loved him for centuries." But when Dige was alive, she could not go to Tran. She had known intuitively that Dige would not have handled sharing her with Tran. It was one thing to take a mortal lover, but Tran was Grey's teacher, and Grey was Dige's. To her, Tran had always been remarkable. She had wanted so badly to ease the extremity of his loneliness. Their relationship had evolved from the limits she was forced to set. 

Grey returned her gaze with troubled seriousness. "I love him, too. He has to..." he laughed wryly, "change or die. He has to be forced to accept that he has life as an option. Methos is the only person I know who chooses life before all else." Grey reached out and squeezed Mariah's shoulders. "I believe Tran doesn't really want to die. He's just so used to thinking that he does...." 

And Methos could show him otherwise. Methos leaped upon the present as something of great interest to discover, even though he carried with him the memories of all that had happened to him and the things that had impressed him during his life. Grey could only hope that Methos would impart some of that bright interest in the present world to Tran rather than take Grey's beloved teacher's head. The dice were rolling. 

* * *

Methos entered his balneum and hit the light switch with his elbow. He was glad he had filled the pools and stocked up upon returning to Paris. What lay ahead promised to be stressful. 

Tran's small, dead body was light in his arms. He carefully set it down. He sat for a moment studying the lax face. The electrical cord he had twined around Tran's neck would prevent him from reviving before Methos was ready. It would give him time to consider his strategy. Now, a great shock could turn an obsessed individual. What would be a greater shock for Tran than waking in the tender care of his enemy? Everything Methos did would have to be as opposite to what Tran would expect as possible. 

That reminded him. He reached into his pocket and touched thickly folded paper. He pulled it out. When he unfolded the edges, he found himself holding three notes. One was for Mariah, one for Grey, and the third had his name on it. He opened it. The message was short. There was an address at the top of the paper and after it Tran had written: 

There is a baby named Etienne Stuart here. Help Mariah adopt him. Please don't be angry with Grey. 

Methos smiled, amused at the short pointedness of the note. Imperious little bastard, he thought. But I will have my way, and it is YOU who will help Mariah adopt this child. He wondered what was so special about this baby boy. He considered the notes. Probably the one to Mariah explained. With some reluctance, he folded the papers together as they were before and replaced them in his pocket. He would not read their mail. He stood and stretched. There were many things he had to prepare before he allowed Tran to revive. 

* * *

Serenity. Tran basked in it. He existed nowhere, touched nothing and nothing touched him. He sprawled and luxuriated in the nothingness. It could not last forever. He felt a tingling at his center. It grew and sucked at him, pulling him in like an imploding star. He resisted it, trying to somehow cling to the void. It was impossible. The tingling became sheer agony and he lost the serenity as he was pulled in. 

He was in suffocating blackness. He desperately sucked in a breath and the air seared his frantic lungs. He struggled under the weight of blankets and felt arms close around him, steadying the wildly moving world. As his breathing slowed he registered the deep ache that was present all the way through his torso. Oh yes, he'd been run through. A slightly lesser ache announced itself at the back of his head. It registered that the arms around him were a stranger's and he pulled away from them. They were gone as if they had never been. Was he dreaming? He was lying on a padded surface. Was he in a morgue? He dared to open his eyes. 

Stars dusted the black sky above him and he was completely disoriented. He could see nothing around him in the darkness. He held still and gazed upwards, puzzling until he realized the flicker of the stars was not natural. He was looking at tiny electric lights. Surprised and delighted at having solved the mystery he closed his eyes and collected information through his other senses. 

The air was damp; the nearby water not loaded with chemicals. It moved regularly. This place - cavern, for he heard echoes - was ventilated and full of water. And electric lights simulating stars. He realized that he sensed another Immortal. The Presence had been there next to him and so as he woke he had integrated it into his world. He could hear the faint sound of the other's breathing. With a sudden panic he opened his eyes and scrambled to his feet, shedding blankets. There was a deep plunge in his gut that brought him down to his knees and he held onto a proffered hand. A warm surface brushed against his lips. Confused again he pulled away. He caught the scent of hot tea and in surprise, held still to sip it. His body was dehydrated and he exercised self-control to drink slowly. A supporting arm moved under his from the right and steadied him. His fingers touched the man's shoulder and found bare skin. Alarmed, he drew back. 

There was the delicate china-note of the teacup being set carefully on the floor. A movement, and with the sound of a switch being thrown lights shone at the bottom of three small pools. Light enough to see by. 

Tran drew in a long breath, trying to steady himself. Methos it was who knelt next to him, naked, all length and firm muscle. He was kneeling submissively, with his legs spread apart, opening himself to Tran's startled scrutiny. His eyes were meekly lowered, his shoulders loose. Tran took a quick glance at Methos' cock. It was limp and exposed. So, as yet he was not going to sexually assault his captive. But then.... Tran was stunned yet again to find that he was still dressed, his clothing damp in places with the blood from their challenge. Half-consciously he fingered the rent where Methos' sword had gone through him. The skin beyond was still tender. 

Methos moved slowly, hands closing on opposite sides of a tray of food on his left, which he placed between them. He picked up one lump, dipped it in a shallow dish and offered it to Tran, holding it so that he could simply bite it. Tran stared at it, his thoughts moving sluggishly. The last time he had eaten had been on the plane to Paris. Part of why he was feeling so ill was his empty stomach. He thought to himself, my life is forfeit anyway, and accepted the bite. Warm rice with seaweed and some sort of sweet-tasting thing at its core, dipped in soy sauce. The rest of the food on the tray was much the same. Waking up to be fed sushi by your enemy. This is a first, Tran thought. He gripped his emotions tight as he felt an almost painful urge to giggle. If he started now he did not know what would happen. Methos slowly fed him. 

When the tray was empty, Methos set it aside and spoke softly. "Is my Lord ready to bathe?" His voice was completely without command. The deep tones were shy. 

Tran shuddered. What game are you playing? He did not speak aloud but instead looked around him. The three bathing pools steamed and the lights at their bottom created an eerie effect. He could see no chains hanging from the walls. That was in a small way reassuring. Methos was not moving. Tran could not read his eyes with them lowered like that, could not see if there was some anticipatory cruelty waiting for Tran to relax so that it could jump him unexpectedly. He took a deep breath, reminding himself that he had already accepted food from the old man's hand. "Yes," he assented, and flinched at the way his voice trembled. 

Continuing to move slowly, Methos reached out and peeled Tran's clothes off of him. There were no untoward touches and he found himself relaxing despite his fears. Methos put the clothes in a woven basket, then moved over to stand next to a wooden, three-legged stool. He sounded nervous as he said, "If my Lord would sit here, I will wash him." 

Tran stood up gingerly. It never occurred to him to run. He was tired and felt a certain lack of interest in escape. With every passing moment, however, his puzzlement grew. He eyed Methos, indulging himself while he could in admiring the lean form, the evenly developed muscles, and the length of leg. He was like a Thoroughbred racehorse or -- no, a Morgan stallion. A fine match for Grey. It doesn't matter what his intentions are. I will cooperate in this fantasy he's concocted, he told himself. He could not seem to quite banish the fear that twisted his stomach. 

He did, however, manage to sit on the stool, close his eyes and enjoy what followed. Methos washed Tran's hair and then set to work with a sponge on the rest of his body. Again, there were no untoward touches, but every stroke of the sponge was applied with care. Methos was not mechanical about what he was doing. He seemed to concentrate on soothing and cleaning every part of Tran's body. 

At last, Tran's confusion and uncertainty drove him to act. He had to know for certain what Methos' intentions were. If he simply asked, the answer might be a lie. Tran silenced and calmed his thoughts. His eyes closed; he saw nothing in the physical world. He could easily perceive the condensed nature of the presence beside him. That explained why he was unable to find Methos when he scanned. Pulled in upon himself like this, the oldest registered much the same as a child in its first century. Again, Tran had to forcibly quell hysterical giggles. Methos had fooled him the last time. This time, Tran built up a huge store of tension and readied to attack the other presence. 

Methos felt it coming. He had been expecting something like this and had made his decision about what to do when it happened. The sudden complete stillness of the body under his hands alerted him first. He opened himself quickly and sensed the towering ram being readied to launch at him. There was the release, the silent screaming as the mass of thought and Quickening came at him. Methos dropped all vestiges of shielding and made no attempt to quash his anticipatory fear.... 

.... and screamed when it hit, crushing him and sending him tumbling in agony. The pain permeated his entire being as the attack met no resistance and cut through him as he had cut through Tran with his sword earlier. That was his last coherent thought before it consumed him. 

Methos dropped like a stone. He curled up on the wet floor. Tran also curled up, falling off the stool as the backlash hit him. There was a ring of fire about his throat and he gasped hoarsely, knowing his pain was but a shadow of his victim's. He found no nefarious motives. There were no perverse desires. There was only a sincere longing to do Tran kindness, and an equally sincere regret that the past could not be undone. 

* * *

Tran scrambled over to Methos, swearing viciously at himself. As he launched into the other man's mind he thought furiously, I am NOT that person! I do NOT brutalize the helpless! Or even, he added with wry amusement, someone who chooses not to defend himself. 

He descended into the mass of agony he had created. Sprawling out he poured cooling steadiness and felt the pain begin to ease. There is a faster way, he thought. He shifted his awareness and reached his hand down to stroke Methos' cock. He enhanced the sensations with his presence seeped inside, intending to draw Methos out with the pleasure. The sheerness of feeling seeped through them both. Tran was unprepared for the panic-stricken reaction. 

Inside his mind shrieked. In the physical world a pain-filled sob broke from the semi-conscious man's mouth, to be followed by words in a language which Tran, to his complete shock, recognized from his childhood. "I am not Zur! I am Methos!" 

Stunned, Tran ceased his arousing tactics and returned to simply soothing actions. He cupped the face between his palms and let his voice shift into the application of power. "You are Methos. Come back to me." 

Long minutes passed before the shuddering began to ease and Methos opened glazed eyes. He blinked and looked up at Tran. Recognition came slowly but then his eyes widened with alarm. A flash of chagrin came across the place where their minds were still connected. "Your bath, my Lord!" Methos pulled himself unsteadily to his knees and reached for the soapy sponge. He began to work on Tran's feet. 

The small Immortal stared at him in confusion. He had felt horrified terror when pleasure came on the heels of pain. Why? And why did this subservient role not seem entirely a surface act? Was Methos really so deep into this role that he felt terrified of neglecting his duties? A taut ache knotted Tran's chest, and he fought against a sudden stinging in his eyes. No. Not in over three thousand years and I won't start crying now. A shiver ran through him as Methos finished the washing, running the rough towel along the soles of Tran's feet. 

Tran watched Methos fold the towel and set it aside, then lift his head slightly, eyelashes still submissively lowered as he sat back on his heels. He held out his hands, palms up. Tran could see them shaking. He placed his hands in them and allowed himself to be drawn towards the pools. 

Soaking in one of the pools was luxury. Tran closed his eyes and reveled in it even as the fog lifted away from his mind. Vague images fluttered between the two men for, having established a link, Tran was reluctant to let it go. He used it to study Methos. He knew a tiny amount about Methos' personality from his exposure to Adam Pierson. That character was curious, friendly, and empathic if a bit whimsical. The oldest himself seemed incredibly adaptable. If this was what the situation called for, then this was what he would be. He desired life. There was a strong impression of cold practicality that seeped through at one point. 

Tran opened his eyes and tilted his head to stare at Methos, who was in the pool with him. The other man solicitously shifted closer to him. Tran casually reached out to stroke the juncture between neck and body and Methos leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. It was bewildering to have someone respond so to him. Tran shook himself and asked, "Why didn't you take my head?" 

Methos opened his eyes and met Tran's shyly. "Grey," he said softly. 

Tran frowned. "A hell of a risk for a lover." 

At that, a small smile curled the edges of the other man's lips. "Not quite. You weren't really after my head." 

Tran froze at the knowing tone. He could not look the man in the eyes, and instead studied the tiling at the edge of the pool. 

Methos' voice floated in the air, deep and reassuring. "After five-thousand years, don't you think I recognize a suicide when I see it?" The silence stretched. When he spoke again, his voice was impossibly soft. "Why me? Of all people I would think myself to be the last you would give your head to." 

Tran dropped his chin all the way to his chest and exhaled a great breath. "That really is the million-dollar question, isn't it," he said somberly. He raised his eyes and studied Methos intently, trying to see beyond the shyness and carefully constructed servile attitude. "I could be wrong, I suppose. All these centuries I've just assumed... did you take Chichinquane?" 

Methos closed his eyes and drew in a slow breath. After a moment he said, "Yes." 

He waited, hoping and reasonably sure that he would not have to endure another attack. He allowed the ancient guilt and self-recrimination for Chichinquane's death to roll through him on a level where Tran would sense it. Hide anything and Tran will become paranoid, he thought. The tips of rough, callused fingers stroked his chin and he shivered at the sensation. He opened his eyes. 

Tran was regarding him sadly. "That is why." 

Methos closed his eyes again, disturbed by that statement. If true, this indicated a depth of obsession he probably could not turn. But was it really true? "If you want her you could just take me --" 

"And have you vanish into the dark of my mind? Even if I COULD take you, that would not give her back to me. But perhaps within you..." he trailed off. His presence shifted against Methos', then suddenly slid just a trifle deeper. 

This action set up a bizarre sensation within the older Immortal, as of goosebumps sweeping through his entire being. He tried to quell the feeling only to have Tran shift again, setting off a slightly stronger wave. Uncertain, he held still. 

Tran took several deep, calming breaths. The Eldest was amazing. It occurred to Tran that what he wanted most of all was to know how Methos lived with his past. How did he survive with the memories of the things he had done? What was it that allowed him to smile, to seem so young when the weight of five thousand years lay on his shoulders? Tran needed to understand, and the only way he knew how to do that would be to reach even deeper into Methos' mind, into his memory. 

It had been a long time since he had done such a thing. Each previous time had been with unwilling men who had no idea what was going on. He had done this once to a man whose attention was absorbed in raping him. After he had completely aligned his thoughts with the man's, he had torn him apart. That one had been a mortal. There had been Immortals Tran had so destroyed and then taken their heads. 

He could feel Methos' trepidation, but the oldest was holding steady and making no attempt to block him. He cupped the man's chin in his palm until Methos met his eyes nervously. Tran leaned close, letting that part of himself he had extended into the other man move just a tiny bit farther in. He could sense the peculiar pleasure his actions were generating. Remembering Methos' strange reaction earlier, he kept alert for any sign of terror. Methos' eyelids fluttered and his breathing was becoming uneven. "I want your memories of her," Tran whispered. 

"I can tell you --" 

He cupped his palm gently over the man's lips, and hoped the oldest would never know what this patience and asking cost him. "Too surface. Will you... share yourself with me? I will try to be gentle." 

"No..." shuddered from Methos. Not fear, precisely, but consternation. For a moment the thought came through painfully clear. I don't want to remember. 

Tran began withdrawing his probes slowly. The crushing disappointment he felt could be endured, he promised himself. He would not invade this man's fragile privacy again. 

Methos suddenly caught his hand with fingers that were cold despite the hot water. "If you will help me stand through it, I will share with you. If it will help you. Though," and he swallowed nervously, "I've never done anything quite like this before." 

Tran searched Methos' eyes, listening in his mind intently to the way the other man's mind had begun to quiver. The ghostly images flitting from the oldest were too shadowy to see, but they tasted of grief and guilt. He felt Methos make an effort to steady himself and succeed to some degree. He, too, felt off-balance. "This is not an activity suited to a pool of water," Tran murmured. 

Methos' shoulders twitched, a smile curved the edges of his mouth. It was a small, somewhat forced smile, but there nonetheless. "Would my Lord care for his massage, now?" he asked. 

It was a delaying tactic, and one that Methos seemed to throw himself into as he had the rest of his role. Stretched out on a pad on the floor, Tran found himself relaxing under the talented hands. He allowed himself to slip to regarding largely from his mind, and watched as Methos settled into concentrating wholly on what he was doing. Now, he thought. He sprawled his mind out once again, lowering his barriers in order not to attract attention. His energy patterns met and aligned with the Eldest's so gently there was not even a twitch. 

Methos closed his eyes and moved his hands slowly over the small body, seeking out tense areas and learning the lay of the muscles. It seemed Tran was all muscle. A mortal child could not develop this kind of musculature because it would impede his growth. Even though Tran was Immortal and would never grow again, his wiry muscles were uneasy over such a slender bone structure. Methos began at the shoulders. He dug into the knots and worked them smooth. With Tran's presence licking the edges of his awareness, he caught the backlash of little pains and pleasures, and let that guide his touch. He worked his way up the neck. There was a fine ring of scar tissue that seemed to encircle the whole of Tran's neck, marring the smooth skin. Methos tenderly worked the skin around it, avoiding the harder tissue. 

Tran was willing to let it go. Methos would not have believed it possible. He knew so little about the small Immortal. Tran had been in Ireland before he met Grey, surviving by training horses and dogs to attack travelers. Why had he left, and why did he have only two dogs and one horse when he found Grey? Methos doubted that the Immortal who had told Tran about Grey survived the encounter. 

And Grey had lived through a year with Tran that he barely remembered. Something drastic had to have happened during that year. Grey's tale had indicated the rest of the century he had been an obedient slave. How had the man who thought himself his people's god and savior been so reduced? Why had Tran suddenly taken Grey into the capital of Egypt and tried to send him on to another teacher? Methos worked on Tran's thighs and thought, We cling to those who abuse us, because they are familiar and consistent in the mad world. 

Tran's presence filled his senses and stroked across every nerve in his body, setting off a bright shrill of pleasure. He lost his balance and struggled to stay on his knees. Tran was stepping into virgin territory and deliberately tantalizing Methos' senses. Methos tried to return the pleasure. He managed to steady his body and worked the muscles in the left leg, forcing himself onto a kind of autopilot. He swung his attention inward to follow Tran's wandering awareness, trying to match him spark for spark. 

It must be horrible to be trapped in a child's body. In truth, Tran was approximately thirty-three centuries old. That span of time shook Methos as badly as his own sometimes did. So few could endure surviving so long in the ever-changing world. And Tran... he would not have been tall. Methos could see in his heart what the small man should have looked like as an adult. Compact, yet with a light build. Thick thighs, a creature of muscle. Would his square, sharply defined face have grown a beard and mustache? Perhaps. He would have been physically overwhelming, and more attractive than Dige. But with this child's body, he had to be mentally overwhelming instead. 

Lost in his imaginings, Methos had abandoned the physical awareness he needed to continue massaging Tran, and did not pay much attention to where they were until they reached the last barrier of his conscious mind. On this side he had nothing to stand or balance on and his sense of self was aflame. His head whirled as Tran suddenly took a firm hold on him, then he felt the small man's attention sweep away. 

He had been so distracted he had not realized what was going on. Here there be dragons, he thought, trembling. Not truly, since that was what people wrote on maps in the areas they had no knowledge to fill in. Intellectually, he knew what lay beyond the barrier, but knowing about it was not the same as reliving every sensation. He felt the return of the other man's full attention. Tran's presence rang full against him, ghostly touches sending trills of sensation through him. Tran was considering the barrier with some doubt, trying to decide how to pass through it without hurting Methos. 

I much prefer my memories to be shallow, Methos told him, and heard him chuckle. That barrier had to be passed, or this exercise would have no point. The memories would hold no surprises, however painful they would be. Methos took the lead away from Tran, and began to open the barrier. He felt a wave of astonished admiration from the other man. 

The truth is more bitter than a brave man's fears. You are very brave, Methos, Tran said. 

The barrier parted in a flash of agony, and they were sucked in together. 

  
**Part 2: Though My Hands May Bleed and Burn**

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

The two men huddled together before cautiously opening their eyes and looking around. Methos recognized the place immediately. Here were the wide plains of Africa at twilight. There was the mud and wattle hut he had once lived in. It was only a still picture they had entered; the place itself was soundless. He looked at Tran and stared, astonished. 

Tran was gazing toward the hut. Methos could feel his surprise. "This is your quiet place?" 

Methos smiled slightly. "The world was largely simple." 

Tran muttered, "I know it was, but I would have thought.... Something more Greek, perhaps. You are too pale-skinned for this climate." He turned to meet the other man's eyes and frowned. "What is it?" 

"You're an adult," Methos answered quietly. 

Understanding lit the other man's eyes. "Ah. This was Chichinquane's gift to me." They stood cautiously. Tran patted his own shoulders. "This was how she saw me, when we joined our thoughts." 

He came up to Methos' chin, and was even handsomer than the eldest had imagined he would be. Methos caught his breath and felt plain by comparison. Tran turned to regard him steadily. "This is a way-point. I have very rarely stopped here in any mind. I've only destroyed it and continued through. But I don't want to hurt you. Isn't that amusing?" 

His wry grin drew an answering one from Methos. "I certainly appreciate it." 

"Why is this at your center? What is so special about a humble hut far from a city?" 

Methos stood thoughtfully for a long moment. He drew a breath again. "This is where I woke after I took my first Quickening. This is where my memories begin. My teacher was a woman named Molumbu." For a moment the plain around them shivered, then a whirl of light formed a tall, proud African woman's image. She stood in front of them in regal splendor, her lips edged with laughter, her eyes deep as the night. "She told me I had killed her enemy, who had found my body washed out of the mud in a flash-flood. She said I ripped his head off with my bare hands, and she laughed. I was never quite sure I should take her seriously, as I could not remember any of it. Just the screaming pain of the Quickening." The image of Molumbu faded away into stardust. 

Tran chuckled. "If she was joking, I like her sense of humor." He stepped towards the hut. 

Methos reached out to catch his hand. "Don't..." he stopped, confused. 

"Why not?" Tran asked him curiously. "What is in the hut?" 

"I'm not sure..." he found his hand was trembling. 

They stared at each other thoughtfully. "Shall we look together?" Tran suggested quietly. 

They entered the hut nervously. Methos brightened the interior with his thoughts. It shimmered with the same starlight the image of Molumbu had left behind. Someone slept on the pallet in the hut. It was a slender, dark-haired boy, perhaps thirteen years old. Understanding washed through Methos and he pulled back. 

Tran turned, surprised. He wondered why Methos was so startled by this image. Had the child been a friend or a lover of his? "Who was he?" 

The eldest leaned against the wall, a haunted expression on his face. "He is Zur." 

Is? Tran thought. As in he is a separate entity? He wheeled and stared at the sleeping boy. "Did you take his Quickening? What is he doing here?" 

Methos was backing quickly out of the hut. "No. I never took his Quickening. Remember, you came for my memories of Chichinquane?" Outside the hut Methos stared grimly away from it. As Tran came to his side, he said quietly, "I didn't think so much of him ever existed. But I suppose it explains...." He shook himself and turned around to face Tran. "What now?" 

Everything went blank, and Methos was once again spinning in void. This time, however, he could feel Tran, whose probes were reaching to his core. Methos jerked as he felt the other man seep into his bones. It was not pleasurable, nor was it painful. It was like he was being filled by something for which there was no space, but it insisted on fitting itself in with him. Carefully blunted touches opened him. He felt a welling of panic, which he fiercely ignored for as long as possible. The panic took him briefly and he struggled, his being permeated with Tran's presence. All his struggle did was open him further. Then he convulsed as pleasure blossomed from all points. Like a hot breath in his ear, like tender strokes on his inner thighs, his penis. Like being entered irrevocably and being stimulated beyond belief. 

Chichinquane, Tran's voice whispered through him. He moaned and spread himself out, reaching desperately for some sort of resolution to the pleasure he was feeling. Chichinquane, whirled through his thoughts again, and he reached for her. 

* * *

He caught her firm, conical breast in his right hand and sucked the nipple into his mouth, flicking it rapidly with his tongue. He toyed with her swollen, hard clitoris as he thrust upwards into her. Her fingers dug into his hair, pulling him hard against her chest as she rode him, gasping. He would not be able to hold out much longer, especially as her free hand scraped across his chest, setting off a burning sensation. The sweet welcome of her body, its slick juices enhancing the feeling of their joining, called him on. He groaned as he felt her begin to tremble, her cunt squeezing tight around him. He thrust hard as he could as her body wrenched into orgasm and he followed her there. 

The trees above shaded them from the afternoon sunlight. Breezes wended merrily through the underbrush around them. The glade was lovely, green and cool. It provided some distance from the howl of forest animals and gave them space to cuddle and then to make love, and they happily had used it. 

She slumped over him with a happy sigh and he wrapped his arms around her, satiated. "You know," he whispered into the thick mass of her hair, "we really MUST break this habit of yours." 

She laughed. "Which habit, Methos?" 

"The one where you seduce your opponent when it's clear you are losing. It just won't do in a normal challenge." 

She stretched against him, purring like a lioness. "But I've only ever fought YOU, teacher." 

"Oh, is it teacher you call me now? I'm not much of a teacher. I let my student have her way far too often to be very effective." He inhaled the scent of the sweet oil she always worked into her hair. It was such a wonderful smell that spoke of this land. Her warm, dark, curvy body contrasted so against his pale skin and angled planes. He could lose himself in the contemplation of her perfection. She had been seventeen when she died, drowned in the river. Four years married with no sign of pregnancy had led her to suicide. 

He stroked her wide cheekbones, lost in the contemplation of her bright brown eyes. She grinned and shook her head at him. "Perhaps so, since you allow yourself to be distracted so easily." 

He smiled back at her. "Not that easily. It's time for your casting exercises." 

She groaned and rolled her eyes. 

Methos rolled her over onto her back and tried to communicate his seriousness to her. "You have the talent! You need every advantage you can get in the Game if you want to survive." He was desperate for her to develop all of her abilities. She was a small woman and not inclined to take the Game seriously. Of course, she was only twenty years old. Her special talents should be developed while she still had the flexibility of her mortal life; it would get more difficult to change as she accumulated years of experience. 

"If they're so important, why don't YOU do them?" 

He felt himself go hot under her gaze. "I don't have the gifts, not the way you do. That's why I'm taking you to --" he used the term her people used, because it was the only one that implied the distance they were traveling, "-- the Ghost Lands. You HAVE memorized the routes, haven't you?" 

She writhed out from under him and assumed the meditative position best suited to casting. She pouted at him, shoving her lower lip out comically. "Yes, I have. The two simple routes, the six difficult alternate paths in case of fire, flood or earthquake, the fastest route. In case we are separated. You are SO meticulous! Don't you leave ANYTHING to chance?" 

He returned her glare with his best stern expression. "No. And neither would you if you were my age." He could have disciplined himself into using what talents like hers he had, but he disliked turning his mind loose of the physical world. He could not shake the fear that he might get lost out there. So he stayed firmly rooted in his flesh, the ground solid beneath his feet. He did not want visions and prophecies; there were plenty of other people out there who could have them if they wanted them. Methos watched Chichinquane fold back into position, her breathing steadying and her eyes shuttering closed. Her presence slowly blossomed outwards and he was aware of her in a vague way all around him. 

He had taken her as far as he could in her gifts. Titania, one of the eight Immortals in his age group, could teach her more. Titania, the Healer. Address: Pool of Dreams, Underland, Ghost Lands. 

He laughed to himself. The people on the next continent gave this distant land much the same kind of names. There were beliefs prevalent in many groups that if you traveled far enough you would come to the land of the dead. The gods knew Methos had tried in his early life. He had never found the lovers or teachers he had lost over the many years; instead he had found new and remarkable peoples. Curiosity had replaced the anguish of loss, and he had never stopped wandering. 

He had taught Chichinquane what he remembered of that region's language. If she did have to go on her own, she would get by. Live as much as you can, for as long as you can, young one, he thought. Though, he added to himself, she would not like the weather in those northern climes. 

The sense of her presence faded as she reached farther out. He sat and watched her, waiting. That was no arduous task. She was still naked and her flesh shone from their lovemaking. He reached into his carry-basket and dug out the carefully protected, supple material he wrote on. One of these days, within a few years, he would have to make some more. Over the centuries he had made writing sheets out of hundreds of materials. ANYthing could be turned to the purpose, though durability of the material was extremely important to him. He had stashes of his writings here and there. He never said at the end of them where he was going, but he always said at the beginning where he had been. Perhaps someday, after he was dead, some other Immortal would discover them and backtrack the path of his wanderings. He settled the paper and his writing quill and began to draw a portrait of her. 

When he finished, he sat back to study what he had done. He laughed at himself wryly. He was not much of an artist, but the picture did carry a great deal of Chichinquane's vitality, regardless of how little it looked like her. It was so difficult to draw the curves, the texture of her flesh. Perhaps he would make a sculpture of her when they were settled at the Pool of Dreams. Her presence suddenly boomed through him and he looked up at her gasp. 

She leapt to her feet and staggered, her arms waving, her expression wild. "Methos!" she cried out. He was already there, wrapping his arms around her and anchoring her to the real world. She repeated his name, clinging to him and pressing her face against his chest. 

"I'm here. You're here, we are together," he told her urgently, stroking her body. He would help her return to the physical as best he could. "You went out too far, that's all. Sh, sh, sh." 

"No, not that. Something..." she stuttered to a halt, her arms around his waist. Her stance became less panic stricken and more protective as she angled her body to guard his. She lifted her head to look around, bewildered. "It seemed so close." 

"What was it?" he asked, amused by her protectiveness. 

"I touched something horrible. It was murderous and poisonous and... and HUNGRY." She shivered. "I don't know, I think it was aware of me but so uncontrolled it could not reach me. A hungry ghost." 

"And you said the casting exercises were useless, Chichi." He glanced around and snatched up their clothing, tossing hers to her. 

She caught them, her eyes blazing with indignation. "I am TWENTY years old and already have died once! Stop calling me by a childhood diminutive!" He opened his mouth to protest innocently and her glare, incredibly enough, became more piercing. "Chipfalamfula may put up with it when you call him 'Chippy', but I won't stand for it!" 

In her indignation she had forgotten the sick horror and her skin had regained it's healthy, dark hue. Methos grinned unrepentantly at her. "Right, I'll remember that. Now, as there are seasonal factors to take into consideration, we must continue on our journey." He wanted them on the move. Whether Chichinquane had sensed a crazed mortal or another Immortal, her talents were not developed enough to pinpoint the source's location. Clothed and mobile would be far better for meeting such an enemy. 

A quick consideration of past experiences caused him to discount the idea that it might be a demon. It was the wrong century for the major ones, and the wrong season for the minor ones. The fact that most Immortals had no personal experiences with such beings was a subject of great debate, particularly when the older ones encountered each other. Titania, for one, proposed that the nature of Immortality, the aura that warned them of each other, might form a ward against such supernatural beings. Methos had never had any encounters at all and was beginning to doubt such things really existed. He had on too many occasions found supposed demons were merely other Immortals, like Chipfalamfula. Chichinquane's tribe considered Chippy a river-demon, when he was really an Immortal who dressed himself in fish and crocodile skins. 

* * *

Tran's voice was a ghost of astonishment. "What were you doing in Africa?" 

"Visiting Chippy. I had... I was tired. I went to see something familiar. Chippy was a student of Molumbu's a century after I was. I arrived on his beach and he pops up with this beautiful girl and says, 'You teach her, Methos.'" 

"Why would he want you to teach her?" 

A laugh. "Well, she was rather bored with him, and not paying attention to her sword lessons. Called him an old 'stick in the mud'. He didn't want to hold himself responsible for her failure to learn to protect herself." 

"Where is this Pool of Dreams? It's what you took MacLeod to, isn't it?" 

"Yes. Somewhere in France." 

Tran's astonishment washed through them both. 

Gently amused, Methos said, "Well, even in those days you could travel quite far in sixteen centuries." 

* * *

They rode their asses, headed ever north. Four days later they encountered another Immortal. His presence rang through them even as theirs touched him. That bizarre undertow of like calling to like. Unlike them, he rode a horse. He was a huge broad-shouldered man. Golden-haired, blue-eyed, a blond beard. His skin was a shade or so darker than Methos'. He regarded the two of them from atop his horse. It was a big animal, its withers coming up to Methos' chest. 

His gaze licked contemptuously over Methos and lit on Chichinquane, to settle with narrowed interest. She recognized the look and glared back at him. He smiled and turned his gaze on Methos. "You look like you might speak a civilized language." Incongruously, he had a deep, pleasant voice. There was a cold undercurrent to it, though. 

Methos recognized the language, though some of the tones were off. Older or younger, he wondered. "There's civilized and then there's civilized," he replied in the same speech. "I am Methos. Have you come for me?" Disliking the man, he moved faster than he might have, his blade drawn and ready. 

"Anxious to die, little man? She looks like quite a prize. Too defiant, but that can be changed." 

Methos gritted his teeth, his agile mind already ticking off points on the way the man sat. He felt his nose wrinkle, betraying his anger. "I like her that way. Who are you?" 

"I am Woden." 

The name struck a cord, and Methos stiffened. "Funny, you don't look at all like your reputation." 

The man uttered a bear of a laugh. "Oh, but I do! I've given up the priesthood, boy! There's no fun in it! And I've had great fun since then." He leered at Chichinquane, who was not at all amused and for whom the conversation was largely incomprehensible. Then his gaze came back sharply to the man guarding her. "Methos the Wanderer? Old enough to make taking your head worth my time." 

"The Woden I've heard of is a healer. Lives somewhere on the west coast in the far north. If you think I'm going to believe you're him...." Methos was not one to make assumptions. Either this man really was Woden and everything other Immortals believed about him was a lie, or he was pretending to be. In which case it was not a very good pretense, because he revealed before identifying himself that he was trash of the first order. 

The man hooted from his horse. "Oh, but I AM him! It feels so good to have shed the trappings of Holy Ground! I've taken six heads since, and one of them was a wonderfully old one: Iace. I believe you know her, she said you were a hell of a tumble in the furs!" 

Methos allowed the shock to pass through him and settle. It did not matter if Iace was dead or not. This man was attempting to use her to rattle him. He urged his ass forward. "Don't even say her name!" he snapped. Let the fool think he was angry. He was centered and ready to fight. Chichinquane would see her first Quickening this day. 

They kicked their animals into a run towards each other. The horse was steady. Methos' ass swerved in alarm as the larger animal came at it. He had been expecting that. He swung his arm out and cut the horse's jugular vein. He could hear the man swearing as the horse fell. Methos urged the ass around to attack. The man aimed a wild swing at the ass, and Methos deflected it aside and jumped off to fight on his feet. Woden put considerable force into his blows and was not without skill. A formidable adversary. Methos' young student would either be broken or lose her head if this man took her from him. Methos grinned, his blood singing. Every once in a while he fought someone who he was truly happy to go all out against. Truly happy to kill. This man was one of them, and Methos would enjoy the fight. 

Move like a cobra, but always remember the cobra can be tamed. Think himself like a mongoose, all quick and deadly teeth. Strength not so important as cunning and agility. Do not let the attack fall into a pattern unless the pattern is intended to throw off the opponent. 

The world vanished as the two men fought. Blood spattered the ground and neither man cared whose it was. Methos won. In a sweep, the other man's head was his. Breathing hard, he rolled his shoulders and bowed his head, waiting for the Quickening. 

A lick of fire and he gasped with the brilliance of the pain. Then bolts of light leaped from the ground and tore at him. Pain soared and images whirled past the focus of his thoughts. Yes, Woden had taken Iace's head. She had trusted him and he killed her. But there were other things. A life of service revealed to be wasteful and pointless. Deaths, fighting other Immortals and slowly changing. Methos breathed deeply. Change was inevitable. You had to live through it. You had to let it happen because there was NOTHING you could do to stop it. 

A strange tingling seemed to start at the edge of his thoughts, then an ache seeped into him. And suddenly it was happening very quickly. He had seen mortals whose bodies were rotting around them. This was just like that. Gashes seemed to open in the core of his being, and corruption poured into him. At first he was too confused to fight. Then he began to struggle. Bits of him shattered. The crushing feeling moved deeper. It touched his core and came into him. It was a terrifying rape. The hard, hot burn reached completely through his body. He was on fire, struggling to hold himself together. He felt parts of himself burst. The feeling was almost physical. I'm going to die, he suddenly thought. 

That which had burst and broken inside him was drawn together with the poison. More things shattered and Methos stared as the poison began to form a shape, taking on a sinisterly familiar outline. He realized that he was going to be destroyed and this fetch would take his place. "NO! I want to live!" he shouted desperately, but the agony had no answer for him. He attacked the developing shape and fought to absorb it back into himself. He stopped fighting the poison, dropping all of his barriers and opening wide. I want to live! He fought and absorbed the poison despite his pain until at last it was all within him and he was intact and whole. 

* * *

"Methos?" came Chichinquane's soft voice. 

Dizzy, he opened his eyes. Night had fallen. The ground around him was scorched, flames still licked at some of the tree roots. He inhaled deeply and tasted the scent of blood in the air, proof of his victory. Beside him his prize. The dizziness faded as hunger began to take its place. She was a dark creature, warm in the cooling air. He grabbed for her, startling her and she jerked back, but he had her arms. Delicious smooth skin over firm muscle. He drank it in, eyes skimming her body. She seemed confused, but made no other attempt to struggle. Why should she, when she was his, won in combat. If she angered him, he could always take her Quickening. But oh, her body was nice. He slid his hand under her wrap, up between her thighs to her entry, and she gasped. He hissed in anticipation. She was moist and hot and his. The hunger flared and blazed. He tore her wrap away and pushed her down, entering her quickly. She began to struggle to get away, looking confused and frightened. 

"Why are you doing this?!" she cried. 

As the pleasure rose and seared through him, he thought that was a ridiculous question. She should not be speaking to him anyway, except in thanks for killing Woden. To his surprise, she began fighting him fiercely. The twisting of her hips was a delight to him as he drove into her, but her struggles were annoying. He struck her as hard as he could, three times. Each time the flare of his strength exhilarated him. The helpless jerks of her body under his made his head sing. She did not cry out or lose consciousness. Instead she finally accepted her place and stopped resisting him. Her legs spread wider, making it easier to drive into her. She arched her hips up to meet his thrusts. Oh yes, he thought as she twisted up to him, I knew you wanted it. The singing of his blood peaked. He groaned as he came, then relaxed onto her body. 

Her arms moved to hold him, then something hard and sharp struck the back of his head. The stars came down from the sky and danced for him in the tiny space of time before everything went black. 

He regained consciousness trying to fight only to find himself tied hand and foot on his back. His arms stretched above his head, his feet were tied apart. He could get no leverage to pull against his bonds and snarled in impotent fury at the sensation of another Immortal approaching. It was HER, Chichinquane. She tested the bonds on his wrists, her worried eyes flickering down to meet his. 

"You'll let me go if you know what's good for you," Methos growled. 

Strangely, this brought a half-hearted smile to her lips. She spoke gently. "I DO know what's good for me, teacher." 

Methos grappled with himself. He widened his eyes to appear innocent. She was his student, after all. "Untie me, please, Chichi?" 

She sat on the wooden strut of the litter she must have built and stared him in the eye. There were tearstains on her face. Soft, girl, malleable! he thought. He did not let his thoughts reach his face. It was she who dropped her gaze after a short time. She said softly, "I can hear it in your voice. You're possessed." 

And she would not listen to him when he told her he was not. 

She traveled north, to the edge of the continent that would come to be known as Africa, traveled the routes Methos had taught her. The two asses, one dragging Methos' litter, were steady, well-trained animals. Every night she told him legends and sang him songs. Sometimes she made love to him. She took no chances, killing him when she had to, so that she could renew his bonds. 

The time and the boredom got to him, and he told her legends of places he had traveled, of Immortals like Molumbu and even Woden. He tried to explain to her how Woden had given up his life as a holy man when he saw its pointlessness, and had been driven out of his own land (Methos was not sure of the circumstances, but that was the impression he had received during the Quickening). He tried to convince her to join forces with him. They could live a life of riches and luxury. That idea had occurred to him after a time. He wanted less to have her as a slave and more to have a lover and partner. Alone, it was too easy to be driven away from the places and things you loved. He had been so driven, or fled in the past. He would never flee again. The memories of regret or lost love had no emotional content any more. It was as though a huge burden had lifted from him. He would have felt free, except that he was bound, physically. 

She refused to see it that way. She kept insisting that it was not he speaking. He insisted back that it WAS he speaking. There was no such thing as possession, people just used that as an excuse to do what they wanted, but he was Immortal and did not need to make excuses. 

She chartered a boat and crossed the sea to the great outcropping of land on which a nation called Rome would someday rise. By dint of the strength of her personality and the trading skills of her people, she was not asked many questions. The boatmen would glance with curiosity at the bound man, but like all mortals had a considerable lack of interest in helping a stranger. On north, but also more westerly. They came to the mass of land that would someday be France. 

Methos fell asleep on the last leg of the journey. There was not much else to do, tied hand and foot. The doubled impact of other Immortals approaching woke him. Titania and Chichinquane moved into his line of sight and came to stand on opposite sides of him. Looking at them, he wanted to have his paper and draw the contrast of the two. They were fairly close in height, but Titania was a creature of sharp, searing bone structure, incredibly fair with thin lips and a high-bridged nose. Her hair was a peculiar red-gold. Chichinquane, with her rich, dark brown skin, was all curves and firm roundness, and of course dark, tight curls. 

They stared down at him, Chichinquane with a kind of grim desperation, Titania with mingled dismay and resignation. Maybe he could use that. There was nothing wrong with him, after all. From the looks of things, the two women had been talking for a long time. Chichi had left him, unattended -- well, perhaps attended by mortals -- while she chatted with Titania! He glared at her in outrage. She flicked her thumb at him from her chin, her people's gesture of defiance. 

He shifted his head to gaze in desperation to Titania. "Make her let me go! It was the first Quickening she ever saw and now she thinks I'm possessed! Did she tell you how long she's kept me like this?" He waved his hands and jerked his feet. He opened his eyes wide and gazed up at her. "I haven't even been able to update my journals! I will go insane if I haven't already!" 

Titania's grim expression cracked and she smiled slightly. "Only you would consider not being able to write a valid excuse for insanity." 

Chichinquane looked dismayed herself. "He's lying! He IS possessed!" 

Titania shook her head. "No, he's not lying. He is whole." 

"But --" 

Titania cut her off with a finger laid on her lips. "Come with me. My attendants will see to Methos." 

They released him from the ties and he stood up shakily. If there were any point to it, he would have killed the ass. He eyed the mortal attendants and imagined the pleasure of killing them instead. He was presently weaponless, and while he could easily have killed them, he would then have to face Titania. That was not something he could do without a weapon, especially if she was angry. She had not reached the thousand-year mark by simply being a priestess. The men and women ushered him into a hut. 

A change of clothes! Chichinquane had resorted to keeping him naked and wrapped in furs most of the time. These clothes were at least civilized, woven material. Probably sheep unless things had changed since the last time he was around. No, it was sheep. The middle kingdoms, Egypt, that he had once loved 'til it proved itself as inconstant as the rest of the mortal world, where the mortal kings built themselves great pyramidal tombs, tended to make much of their clothing from plant fibers. Though interesting, that was not suited to the cold climate of this region. The realization that he was at last free hit him again, and he rushed out to the ass that was carrying his supplies to dig through them. The paper and writing quills in his hands for the first time in months, he sat down with a sigh. Everything was suddenly right in the world. Titania would show Chichinquane that he was not possessed, then he would take Chichi and they would discover how many ways they could live powerfully off the mortal world. 

In the meantime, he wrote. He started with his observation that they were still dressing in sheep-hair fabric at the Pool of Dreams. Then he went on to write down the more interesting of the legends Chichinquane had told him. With so much in his head, he did not stop until his fingers began to cramp, by which time the sun was setting and it was becoming difficult to see. 

Presence touched him as he was rubbing the webbing between his fingers. He looked up to find Titania approaching him. He set his papers aside and stood quickly. "I want my sword." A new itch had begun as soon as he sensed her. He wanted her Quickening. 

"Not yet," she told him. "You must go dream walking." 

"What? Why?!" He had backed several steps from her before he realized it and held his ground. "No." 

She regarded him blandly. "It is the only way Chichinquane will believe you are not possessed." 

He glared at her. "Dream walking is for madmen, so they can find themselves and become whole again. I am not mad!" 

"You have never dream walked. It is not only for the mad. Even the sane can find themselves." 

"Or LOSE themselves," Methos growled. He found he could not continue to hold her steady gaze. His pulse pounded and his fingers twisted, wanting to hold a sword and fight her. Or perhaps to do something quite different with her. He held his breath to control his beating heart and closed his thoughts away. Titania was no inexperienced child. Her power was full and strong. She might decide he was a threat before he was in a position to take her. 

"Dream walking," he cursed. 

* * *

"You enter the pool," Titania told him. "The magic will do the rest." 

The rough-hewn walls curved to the roof of the chamber. Torch light reflected off the dark water. It all looked so ordinary. He had thought that before. Yet strange, invisible things happened here. He hesitated, turning his head to meet Chichinquane's eyes where she stood the other side of Titania. At the very least, this would prove that he was not possessed. Then he would take her away from this place before she could become Titania's student. She returned his gaze with her own clear pleading. So young. He turned away, drew his breath and stepped down into the water. 

He was alone in the chamber and the water glowed an eerie blue-white. It swirled around him. He drew in a breath and almost coughed. He felt hollow, his throat bewildered by the passage of air down it. A new sensation. It was as though his skin was stretching and pricklings pushed at him. He looked down and was surprised not to see tiny bristles poking out of him. As the sensation increased, he began to feel frightened. He was going to burst apart! He fought it, clutching himself and balling up. A gibbering noise from inside him as his guts twisted. The pressures were sharp or simply deep at alternate moments. "No," he whispered. "I will not be destroyed." 

Titania's voice came from behind him. "Let go." 

He jerked around to see her. She stood alone at the side of the pool. Methos clenched himself tighter as something tried to find a new purchase, and he forced it to be satisfied with where his feet already stood. "You're trying to kill me!" he rasped. "You want me to go insane and then you can justify taking my head. I will not come apart like this!" He stumbled and almost fell. He was increasingly disoriented and he fought and clung to the tight mote of feeling that was himself. 

He groaned as strands began to seep out of his pores. Sick as he felt, he desperately swallowed them back up. "YOU CAN'T TAKE ME APART!" he screamed at her. "I'll kill you! I will!" 

The sensation began to change. The bits of his essence that had been drawn out rebounded back inside with bruising impact. He fell and breathed water. Spluttering, he came up. They were all there. Titania, Chichinquane and the attendants. The torches flickered and the water was dark. 

Titania was not looking at him. Instead she had turned to Chichi. "Now do you understand?" 

The dark woman shook her head. "No." Yet her face was wet with tears. 

"He has..." Titania paused as if groping for words. "He chose this. Rather than go mad he gave himself to the darkness." 

Methos staggered to the edge of the pool and pulled himself out. The attendants gave him a wide berth, reluctantly holding out cloths for him to dry himself. "Can we go now?!" he snapped at Chichi. He saw her startle, then move closer to Titania. He needed to convince her. "I am NOT possessed! This is ME!!" 

She shuddered visibly. "A Quickening did this to you! Perhaps a Quickening will undo it?" 

"I beg your pardon?" he said, startled. 

Titania was shaking her head. She took Chichinquane's arm and forced the young woman to meet her eyes. "I have never seen such a thing before. If Quickenings affect us it is usually very small. And whose head would you use? I will not offer mine. Will you offer yours? He would take it and never notice the difference." 

Methos lost his footing and sank to the floor, exhaustion weighing him down. He lifted his head to glare at Titania. "I would notice if I took her head. And there is nothing wrong with me! Stop feeding her primitive fantasies!" 

Titania turned and gazed at him, her face a study of composed calm. "Dream walking has drained you. You may sleep in the outer chamber, but you must leave in the morning. SHE will stay here." 

"NO!" He levered himself to his feet. "She goes with me!" The attendants took his arms and he struggled against them, but they dragged him from the cavern. 

Furious as he was, he was drained as Titania had said, and fell asleep amid the furs. The presence of an approaching Immortal woke him. He scrambled to his feet and moved cautiously to the entry. The caution did not help him when something heavy whirled out of the darkness and smashed into his head. He fell, his skull cracked doubly against the wall. His body in shock, he was unable to register anything beyond that he was being dragged from the room. Not off of Holy Ground, he knew as he began to regain his senses. No, he was being taken in the direction of the pool. A short while later, he and his assailant plunged together into the water. 

* * *

The pool glowed around them. An ache in the air, a rumble and growl of impending violence. Chichinquane had him in her arms and brushed the water from her eyes. Methos was still dizzy and had limited control over his limbs. He could not stop her when she raised a dagger and used it to sunder him. 

What was it like in the real world? No one would ever know if it was like anything. But on the mental plane, black vitriol poured from the wounds she had made. It quenched the light of the pool and plunged them into darkness. Chichinquane shone as she reached into Methos and pulled at the slimy, thick tendrils, dragging them out of him. He was getting weaker every moment. Too weak to do more than feebly bat at her as she eviscerated his mind. As she dug the blackness out, it piled up behind her. Methos stared in half-aware astonishment as the blackness behind Chichinquane heaved and took on a vaguely human form. He thought he could hear it gibbering and whispering. The shape drew tall while she did not notice it. It roiled and hardened. Then it plunged back towards Methos. Through Chichinquane. 

She screamed as it burst through her. In its rush to return to Methos, it turned the young woman inside out. He felt it restoring him, finding its way back but to a now precarious balance. He welcomed his returning strength and gathered himself up. The girl's head had dipped below the water. Her glow had dimmed and become splotched as though diseased. Methos jerked the dagger from her limp fingers and raised it to strike her in revenge. 

Color and a cacophony of unidentifiable sound burst around him, between them. He was forced away from Chichinquane until he fetched up against the side of the pool. Hands snatched at him and pulled him from the water. Methos cursed them and tried to fight, but he was still not recovered and they beat him into blackness. 

He woke and was blinded by bright sunlight. An instant passed in which he realized he was outside pinned on his stomach before the whistle of something traveling swiftly through the air touched his ears. His back tore and he screamed in astonished pain. Hands held his arms and prevented his escape. He was so damned tired of being restrained. He lost the thought as his back was torn again and again until the pain blinded him, and he was sure he had no skin left at all on his back. 

The beating stopped. Titania's voice rang in his ear, in his head. "Run, Methos. As far away as you can. Never return here." 

The pain snapped again across him but his arms were released. With a cry, he staggered to his feet and fled the whistling of the switch. By the time the fear ran out, he had torn his feet to ribbons running. He burned with uncontrolled hunger that was not physical. He had fallen off the taut cord of sanity sometime... he was not quite sure when. During his run from the Pool of Dreams? Or was it when Chichinquane had let out the blackness and he had finally lost control of it? 

He could not say how long he had run -- hours or days -- but when he encountered a pompous young nobleman on the road, he took the boy down and appropriated horse, furs and weapons for himself. After a short consideration, he took the boy, too. 

* * *

Methos ran. Or he would have if they were in the physical world. The memories had been left so far in the past they had become simple lines in his personal story. 'I took a Quickening that made me evil, my student tried to help me but could not, and that was the last I ever saw of her until the day I took her head." But reliving the details.... He found himself caught fast by the other presence twined with his. It held him and forced him back. He could have broken loose easily, but he had no intention of hurting the other. He was reduced to useless struggling until the other pinned him splayed open. He had chosen this helplessness, and that made it easier to bear. Still, he had to fight to stop himself from screaming. 

A thoughtful silence, then Tran said calmly, "Chichinquane tried to tear the darkness out of you and it ripped her to pieces coming back to you." 

Though there was no comfort offered, there was strength to lean against. He held onto it. He had never known the incident had left Chichi mad. She had seemed sane if a bit strange when he took her head. Fifty years had not been enough to heal the damage done. He said raggedly, "She obviously stayed with Titania and developed her gifts. Then she came after me. She intended for me to take her head. She thought she could change me back that way." 

Tran's voice rose in astonishment. "But her plans were delayed by the need to care for me. Good god. What was she, fifty years old when she died? I always thought she was an ancient." 

"She would have been about seventy." 

"And the next time you saw her you took her head. Tell me about Chichinquane's death." 

Methos wearily opened the pages of his memories for Tran's perusal. 

* * *

The nomadic life was a pleasure. They were moving westward, intending to ultimately reach the lands of their fellow pale-skinned barbarians and see what havoc they could wreak there. Kronos and Methos had found one balance between them and it was enough to start. Kronos said where and who, Methos said when and what. Thus when Methos said they needed to have plenty of supplies for crossing the mountains, Kronos decided a small village would probably be just the source. 

The village died under their swords. Methos had forbidden the use of fire in these raids, explaining that the smoke would attract too much attention before they had gathered everything they wanted. Kronos had grinned wickedly. First get what you want, THEN use it to destroy your enemies. 

Methos paced through the small village feeling an annoying itch at the back of his skull. Something was wrong, somewhere. He searched among the bodies, but none had any life in them. He looked over at the pots where Caspian was busy boiling the flesh off of various skulls. Their collection was growing. He allowed himself a smug smile. The skulls were a testament to his planning skills. Methos saw Silas laughing as the village dogs alternately jumped up on him or rolled over to show him their bellies. Silas was easy to please. 

He tossed his head in annoyance. The itch nagged at him. The others were clearly undisturbed. Finally, he decided to follow the faint pull to remove its demanding note. He ran towards their horses, enjoying the feel as he stretched his legs. He leaped onto his rangy black mare's back and urged her into a run away from the village. 

He rode for hours. There were natural obstacles to overcome and they were frustrating, but the pull continued. He was alive with curiosity and ire by the time he rode into the full sensation of another Immortal. He raised himself high on the saddle and saw her ahead of him, standing atop a huge boulder in the center of the meadow. 

Disoriented, he reined in his horse. Her clothing was strange, out of place on her small body. Her hair was in the wrong style. What was she doing, wearing such ugly clothing? He shook his head. Chichi... his student? He wanted her violently. The memory of months of her voice, warm in his ear, of her body riding his, took his breath away. The clothes she had were perfectly normal for this land, so far from her native country. They just did not suit her. He would see her dressed in far better. If he could take her, he thought suddenly, studying the confident way she held her weapon. It was a spear, tipped with a long, sword-like bronze blade, shining in the sunlight. A weapon of her homeland. He scowled and opened his lips to speak, but she was faster than he was. 

"Methos," she said. It was the familiar, warm voice but now it reached into his head, echoing. He jerked the reins back as pain sliced through his thoughts. His mind twitched and gave open its memories of what had happened since he had last seen her. The pain threatened to paralyze him. He refused it, refused to take the easy path of retreating into the dark. One memory, of a voice he hated with all of his being, slithered ahead of the others. As long as I can hurt you, I will own you. You want to be free of me? Don't feel. Oh, yes. He remembered THAT lesson. 

He ignored the memories that threatened to blind him and rode his horse full-tilt towards the boulder. Chichinquane watched his approach without fear. She swung the blade of her spear at his head and he smashed it aside, but she was no longer there. She caught him and took him down, the long grasses slashed at their skin but were not thick enough to break their fall. Methos grunted as his back impacted on the ground but scrambled to his feet, jabbing his sword at Chichinquane and hissing like a snake in fury. She evaded his sword and the wooden end of her spear cracked his skull. At the same time, she somehow reached into his mind and stirred his memories. Faces loomed in his mind. He howled at them, knowing they were long dead. He closed with her to render her spear useless, but found it difficult to use his sword. After several very close calls he finally managed to pin the spear under his feet. He drove Chichinquane to her knees and stood at her back, his sword to her throat. 

"You can live, if you serve me," he hissed into her ear. He was determined to have her. 

"No," she said calmly. She slammed her head back into his face. 

Nearly blind with pain and rage, he put all of his strength into his strike. Her head went flying. 

Standing over her body, he gritted his teeth and clenched his muscles, ready to ride out the pain of the Quickening. Then it hit and his battered and disoriented mind was torn asunder. Layers wrenched and peeled as though she was slashing at him even now. It went on and on until finally it washed cleanly through him. He crumpled in the grass, his mind empty and blank. He could see the grass around him, smell the dirt under him, feel the body he lay over. Then he saw Silas' face come in front of him, and he blanked out. 

There were sounds sometimes. A deep voice spoke to him. He could not make out the words, but he liked the voice, so he listened for it. It distracted him from the heavy mass that lay over him. Over time, he began to be able to hear some of what it said. It talked about dogs and horses. It talked about the joy of fighting. It said his name and he studied the sound with pleasure. 

Then one day, another voice intruded. It was angry and cold. At first he did not want to listen, but he caught the sound of the other voice and so he paid attention. 

The angry one said, "He is vulnerable! And that means WE are vulnerable!" 

His favorite answered equably, "He will be fine, brother. He just took a bad Quickening. Leave him alone." 

Vulnerable. The first time he had heard that angry voice, he had been vulnerable. He remembered suddenly the violation of his starved and feverish body. He thought, Kronos! That was Kronos and he attacks vulnerability! And only Silas is here to stand between us. 

The mass - whatever it was - holding him immobile seemed immense. He heaved against it. He fought and struggled until at last he began to close the gaping distance between his mind and body. Slowly, oh so slowly, he began to gain the other senses of his body besides hearing. The Presence of another Immortal. The feeling of furs under his fingers. The weight of the blanket. The awkward angle at which one leg lay. The smell of singed meat. He turned his head and looked up into Silas' eyes. 

The big blond man grinned down at him from a face that suddenly looked much younger than it had when Methos had last seen it, filled with anguished concern before the emptiness had taken him. "Welcome back, brother." 

He tried to answer but his throat locked up. Silas helped him sit up and gave him water. After a moment he could speak. "S'good to be back." 

He had recovered, but still he could feel a cracked, split sensation running through the core of his being. He was steady for now, but how long would he be able to hold it? Over time the sensation decreased in intensity and he began to forget about it, except some nights when it seemed to throb. When they painted their faces, he painted his half-blue and left the other side clear. "You look like a great bruise, Methos!" Silas had commented, laughing. 

* * *

The thoughtful silence lasted for quite some time. Then Tran asked quietly, "Fifty years had passed?" 

Methos shivered. "Yes." 

"What happened? Who was that slithering in your thoughts while you fought Chichinquane? How did you meet Silas, Kronos and Caspian?" 

"I... I was afraid you would ask me that." Methos hesitated, then said, "Oddly, in many ways it is not so painful a story." He wanted to get it over with. The pains deserved their place in his past. His present was so far away from them and he had no way to go back and undo the things he had done. Perhaps soon Tran would find whatever it was he was looking for. Methos opened his memories with relief, for his part would soon be over. 

* * *

**Part 3: Into the Fire**

He could no longer remember ever being any other way. Seething with cold hunger, dark with hatred and bloodlust. He lived to kill. It was his purpose, his release. It gave him his only pleasure in a world that made no other sense, and he sought that pleasure eagerly. Thus when he rode over a rise to witness the hue and cry of armies clashing on the plain before him, it was with joy in his heart and wild laughter on his lips that he urged his mount down into the midst of the battle. He attacked every man that crossed his path, careless of taking hurt. Minor wounds healed quickly enough and he was too nimble for these mortals to manage a disabling blow... and what difference if they did, he would only come back to fight and kill again. Finally someone got a lucky shot to his head, and he fell into blackness. 

The stench of sweat and blood was the first thing he recognized as he regained consciousness. Then feeling: grit cutting into his skin from the stone floor. He blinked, and rolled slowly to a sitting position, looking around the compound, searching automatically for a weapon and a target for his rage. 

He was confined with perhaps a hundred other men. Their captors had stripped them all naked. There were seven prisoners without visible injuries who were pale-skinned, dark-haired and brown eyed like him. Like them, he had been chained hand to foot so that he was forced to sit or to walk hunched over. The guards came into the room and took one of them out at a time. They were gentle about it, but returned none of the prisoners. Methos wondered what was in store for him beyond those doors, for his turn was fast approaching. He eyed the soldier standing next to the door. Perhaps he could try for the sword... the man seemed bored, only half awake. Before Methos could more than half-form a plan it was his turn. A guard came after him, pulled him to his feet, and took him through the door. 

They entered an open room lit by the afternoon sun. The guard locked Methos' chains to a hook on the floor and left him there. He was exhausted, but could not think of rest. The burning hatred that roiled in his mind could find no avenue of release. He could only hold still for so long before he began to shake in his bonds. Twisting, he began a deliberate effort to rip out of the chains, even if it meant crushing his hands to do so. These short-lived mortals dared touch him, dared chain him! 

A low laugh sounded behind him and he stopped writhing, surprised. His skin crawled as a hand caressed his ass. It stroked down between his legs, testing the feel of his muscles. Another roamed his chest, pausing to stroke his nipples. His body responded, slave to this drive even as his agile, hate-filled mind sought ways to turn someone else's desire to his advantage. "Is it really you?" a low voice breathed in his ear. His hair stood on end. He did not know this voice, but the words were alarming. He shivered, nervous fear temporarily overriding the hate in him. The man moved around in front of him. 

His captor was perhaps forty years old. Not tall, but with broad, powerful shoulders and looking muscular in his fighting leathers. A long, drooping mustache with curled ends over full lips in a swarthy face. Methos took some pleasure in knowing the man would grow old and die soon even if no one killed him first. I will outlive you, he thought. 

"It looks like you," the mortal said, cupping Methos' chin. Hard black eyes met Methos', deep with a hot hunger. "There's one sure test." He raised his dagger, holding it in front of Methos' eyes. Moving it down he cut a swift, finger-long slash on his prisoner's collarbone and then watched it intently. The wound healed quickly. The warlord's smile took over his whole face. "Zur, I have you back." 

Methos held still for a moment, his mind gripping the words and turning them over. Zur was obviously another Immortal, one whom the warlord had known intimately, if the liberties he was taking were any indication. It must have so long ago that he did not really remember the other man's face, as Methos doubted he had a double. Still, playing along might give him an opportunity to escape. "Master?" 

The warlord jerked up, frowning at him. "Have you forgotten? Yes I see you have!" He took Methos' jaw between hard, strong fingers and forced his head up, straining the long neck. "Of course, it's been years. I'll need to retrain you." He closed his palm over Methos' mouth and forced his neck back to the breaking point. Then horrible pain flared in Methos' chest as the warlord slowly drove the dagger into his heart. Even as he died he heard the man say, "Kill the others, I have him." 

He revived standing in darkness. His mouth was full of dry cloth that had a peculiar, acrid taste. Something wooden pressed under his chin and around his neck, forcing his head up, holding it in position. His arms and legs were tied far apart and he was cold. He tried furiously to work the cloth out of his mouth. No chance, it was wedged in and tied tight. His body cried for liquid. He pulled futilely at his bonds. "Zur," the warlord's voice called. Methos shivered as a hand roved over his penis and around to his asshole. "Never speak unless I direct you to." The hand slid forward between his legs and squeezed his balls tightly until the pain was almost unbearable. Methos thrashed frantically but the hand did not let up. A mouth covered his nipple and bit into it, the pain almost overwhelming. Suddenly the hand released him and stroked up his penis, which hardened under the touch. He shuddered and pushed at it. The hand jumped away and struck him resoundingly across the face. "NEVER, Zur. Never reach for it." Dizzy, he went limp in his bonds as the warlord's hands continued their motion over his body. 

He would have snarled and bit, shouting that he was not this Zur. He was the wrong man. Yet the memory of those implacable eyes indicated that the warlord would ignore such a protestation. He did not care to protest anyway. He would rip the man's heart out, if only he could get out of these bonds. 

He lost consciousness more than once. Every time he opened his eyes it was to darkness. Sometimes it was to the feel of hands and the voice of the warlord. After a time he was trembling constantly with the need for water and food. Sometimes he knew the cloth in his mouth was replaced while he was unconscious. It would be saliva-soaked when he fell asleep and dry when he woke. He suspected some sort of poison in the cloth for the taste sometimes varied. Shadow sensations crawled on his flesh. He began to see things in the darkness. Finally he woke to find his mouth empty. A voice whispered against his ear, "Who are you?" 

"Methos," he answered automatically with his swollen, dry tongue. 

Pain flared through his body, he smelled burning flesh and realized it was his own. "Zur, you are Zur." The pain traced a path from his shoulders to his thighs, almost deafening him to the insistent question; "Who are you?" 

Perversely he snarled, "Methos!" The burning moved up to his penis and he screamed as the tender flesh felt as though it was broiling. "Zur!" he finally choked out. 

"Remember." Then a lash against his back. It tore his shoulders, his sides. The lash kept on and on until every part of his body screamed with pain. 

Again he regained consciousness to a voice asking his name. Again he made the mistake of responding, "Methos." And again the pain went on until he lost consciousness. Hysterically he screamed to himself, Say Zur! Say Zur when you wake! 

Then one time when he awoke and the voice asked his name, he could not remember the answer. He grasped frantically at the two hazy blurs in his thoughts and could not tell which was which or give them form. The voice said as always, "You are Zur." He recognized the word and repeated it. Then the hands touching him brought pleasure, tenderly stroking until he moaned under every touch. 

The next time he woke he answered "Zur," when asked. The other answer brought pain every time he used it, so for the moment he abandoned it in the back of his mind. 

"Yesssss," replied his tormentor. Something damp brushed against his lips and he opened them. A soaking wet cloth touched his tongue. Moaning, he tried to suck on it and instantly something hard cracked his head violently. "Remember, never reach. You are a slave, you do not take. What is your name?" 

"Zur," he whispered raggedly. 

The next time he woke the room was ablaze with light. He would swear he had not been moved. A glance around confirmed that the windows were normally obscured by the heavy furs lying on the floor. Metal bands encircled his wrists and presumably ankles, as he could not see past the flat wooden restraint that prevented him moving his head down. Thick cords linked the bands on his wrists to hooks on the ceiling. The wall was several feet away behind him. This cursory examination showed him no avenue for escape. 

The sense of another Immortal stretched through him, throwing him into a fury. He wrenched against his bonds until his skin tore and bled. If he were only free, if he only had his sword then this warlord and this other Immortal would regret what they did. They would pay for the unendurable pain. The door opened at the end of the room. 

The warlord entered pulling a chained, naked man behind him. Upon seeing Methos struggling, his eyes narrowed with surprise and then sparked with anger. "Well, Zur." He stared steadily at Methos until the helpless man stopped struggling and glared back at him. Then he turned his gaze to the furious one of his other prisoner. "And here I was going to show you what was in store for you if you do not obey me." A cold smile crossed his face, gazing into the other man's. "One last taste of what freedom has to offer you. Mount him." He shoved his prisoner towards Methos. 

Stumbling, the man came to a stop and righted himself. He half-turned, shooting a hate-filled glare over his shoulder at the warlord, who idly tapped a long dagger on his palm. He turned back to glower at the other man hanging helpless in front of him. "Who are you?" he demanded. 

"Methos." 

The stranger was unfamiliar. His skin was as pale as Methos' own. His eyes were blue and hair dark. He had a compact body, lean and well muscled. A terrible scar from his mortal lifetime dropped down over his right eye. He moved like a dangerous fighter. 

They ignored the warlord's mutter, "He's Zur." 

The scarred man said, "I am Kronos." His eyes flicked up and down, studying his immobilized peer. His eyes narrowed and he ran the tip of his tongue across his upper lip. Methos glared back at him, seeing the rising hunger in those eyes, in the penis that also rose. Kronos stalked around behind him and rested both hands on Methos' hips. Methos felt him lean against him, heard him take a breath, and tried to steel himself for what was about to happen. Sharp pain of thumbnails digging into the tender skin of his buttocks. Something thick and hard pressing against his entry. Pain burned through Methos' being. It never hurt like this before. His skin, thin and weakened by the lack of food or water, was fragile. He gasped frantically for air as his anus tore, blood lubricating the fierce movement. 

The warlord came to stand in front of him, gazing into the pain-glazed eyes. "Slower," he said sharply to Kronos, "let him feel you." The rapist growled but obeyed. 

Oh, Methos did feel him all right. Size tore at the fragile flesh and the pain had an unexpectedly sharp edge. Kronos moved in and out in fierce, even strokes until finally he came, biting into Methos' shoulder, skin breaking easily. The room blurred and whorls of light joined the horrible sensations, the smell of blood and sweat wafting up to make him gag and struggle weakly. Then it was over. 

The warlord had Kronos taken from the room and came over to stroke the tears on Methos' cheeks. He smiled at his prisoner. "You see, Zur? That is what it is like with someone who does not care about you." He brought over a bowl of water and a cloth. He washed Methos with long, slow caresses. By the time he finished cleaning his prisoner, the wounds were all closed. Methos was still too much in shock to register pleasure from the rubdown. The warlord stepped back, observing his work with a critical eye. Then he picked up a dry cloth and brought it toward Methos' mouth. Reason deserted the Immortal. He cringed back in his bonds, wildly trying to keep his mouth away from the cloth. 

The warlord laughed and shook his head. "You need disciplining, sweet Zur." He brought out his dagger and stabbed it into Methos' cheek. Choking on his own blood, Methos had to open his mouth. When the wound healed the warlord shoved the cloth in and tied it tenderly into place. He smiled and said, in a soft, deadly tone of voice, "As long as I can hurt you, I will own you. You want to be free of me? Don't feel." He checked the board that held Methos' head still, then went to the windows and began sealing them up, plunging the Immortal into darkness again. 

Methos shuddered. Don't feel. Impossible when the sight of the mortal brought his hate to new levels. Hanging there, he fell asleep into fitful dreams. Fingers stroked his chest and woke him up. They traveled up and down for a time then left him alone. He drifted back to sleep. This time fingers stroked into his anus, waking him quickly and arousing him before ceasing. "Zur," a voice spoke in his ear each time he woke. 

"Methos!" he countered once and hands closed over his nose and mouth. He struggled but they stayed there until he lost his strength and slipped back into unconsciousness. 

"Don't fight, Zur," murmured the voice. 

This time the pain whipped up from his groin. He surged awake trying to scream through the cloth, as he felt the tender flesh down below burning. "Zur," came that sibilant whisper in his ear. Whatever it was that burned him was taken away. Blindly he tried to curl up in his bonds. Impossible to seek comfort even as his body healed. But hands stroked his nipples until he shuddered. They reached down to the newly healed skin and played with his penis until it grew hard. "You are Zur," the voice caressed him even as the hands did. Then they were gone and he was bereft. 

Years of shielding fell away as each moment of sleep was broken by pain. He stayed awake as long as he could, knowing the torture would not begin until he slept. The room filled with rolling mists of color in the darkness. Confused at first, then he began to look for shapes. All too often the warlord's face would resolve from the mist. Strong hands would touch his fever-thin cheeks and bring relief to the loneliness and confusion. His master's lips would move, giving name to the quivering flesh. Zur... Zur... Zur. 

He dreamed he walked in a ruined landscape. A dark-skinned woman resolved from the burning sunlight. "Molumbu," he called out to her. "It hurts!" 

She took his hands between her own. "Remember what to do when the pain is too much? Sleep, sweet one. The pain will pass. We are Immortal and all things heal. Sleep." 

"But that is when the pain comes, Molumbu. I wake in pain." 

"Then do not wake, and the pain will go away." 

He began to hallucinate. One time out of the colored mists a room resolved. The master sat at a table reading scrolls in candlelight. Raising his head, he called "Zur, drink!" 

The bound man twitched in response to the name. Then out of the mists stepped a boy, perhaps twelve or thirteen years old. He was very slim, pale skinned with a shaved head. He walked with his eyes lowered, his shoulders down and his body bowed slightly, every move the move of a slave. He carried a water pouch and held it out obediently to his master. The warlord drank without looking at his slave. Finished, he turned and cupped the boy's chin, raising the head. A touch of his thumb to lips and the boy opened his mouth. The man tipped the water pouch and let its contents trickle in, the boy standing motionless. The bound man watched with pain, his flesh begging for water and starved for both food and tender touches. 

The scene faded out. 

The boy and the man stood together on the devastated plain. The man turned and walked towards a mud dwelling. Standing outside the entrance he looked back at the empty-eyed boy behind him. It was not a difficult choice, really. He went into the hut. 

Many such scenes intruded upon his consciousness after that. His younger self rarely spoke, never looked at his master and never initiated contact. He remembered his master's name. He heard himself say it once. Shaddam. There were times when he remembered so well, he felt as though Shaddam were touching him in the present and not just in memory. The sensations were acute to his starved body. He could feel it when Shaddam stroked grease into his anus and thrust into him from behind. Shaddam was huge in his memory, agonizing but child-Zur made no sound and neither did adult. As Shaddam stroked in and out he reached around and squeezed Zur's erection. Zur no longer distinguished himself from the child of his memory as Shaddam forced him into orgasms that he shook silently through. Zur swayed on his feet when Shaddam withdrew and the scenes faded into darkness again. 

* * *

Methos was shaking again, the mental flow wavering and rippling to scatter on the waves of his thoughts. "I made the same choice again. Succumb or go mad. But I didn't have the sense to simply succumb." 

"Don't stop. Share it all." 

* * *

Then the day came when the room flooded with light that drove the colored mists into hiding. At first blinded, he heard Shaddam's approaching footsteps. His body ached to be touched, but he kept his eyes respectfully lowered. Shaddam reached around and untied the thong that kept the cloth in Zur's mouth. He tilted Zur's head back and spilled from his cupped hand water down the bound man's throat. Zur drank each mouthful as it was given him from his master's hand. "Good, Zur," said Shaddam gently. Shaddam gave him water until he felt he would drown. This time the cloth was not replaced, and the room was not closed to light again. After stroking him from head to toe, Shaddam left him alone in the room. 

Limp in his bonds he waited for his master. He wanted desperately to see the strong body, hear the confident voice and admire the handsome face through lowered eyelashes. He wanted to hear approval in that voice, see pleasure in that face. Now he remembered what to do to get these things he craved. He would do it all. Shaddam would be very happy with him. 

Evening came before Shaddam returned. He brought oil lamps to light the room. Zur thought crazily that this was his duty, and when his master was sure of him, he would do so again. Shaddam removed the board that held Zur's head up. Zur kept limp, letting his head roll forward. He heard his master's soft laugh. His head was raised once again and this time Shaddam fed him a meaty stew. "You must become strong to serve me." His shrunken stomach revolted at the feel of food entering it, so Shaddam fed him small portions very slowly. 

Once again Shaddam rubbed Zur up and down, then said, "Sleep, Zur." Knowing it was at his master's command, he was not afraid and closed his eyes, letting the darkness engulf him. The whirling lights did not come back. He dreamed vaguely of Shaddam's pleasure. 

He was not aware of time passing. The days blurred into each other. Shaddam allowed him to serve again. He brought his master food and drink during planning sessions. He made the sleeping furs ready, lit the lamps. And if sometimes he collapsed in a trembling heap on the floor, finding the emptiness of his mind too large a space to walk in, he did not let it disrupt his duties. 

One day Shaddam took Zur with him down into the dungeons. The dampness reeked with unpleasant smells. Zur stayed as close to his master as he could. When a bizarre feeling rippled through him, growing in intensity, he stumbled. Shaddam turned and frowned, but Zur quickly huddled at his master's feet. The warlord relaxed. "Come, Zur. We are almost there. I know you don't like the dark." 

Oh, good master. Kind master. But he kept those thoughts to himself. Shaddam would not like it if he spoke. 

They entered a room well lit by torches. There were a few men in the room. There was one prisoner hanging from the wall, his chest a mass of blood. A word from Shaddam, and the room emptied, leaving only the prisoner and a boy of about fourteen with Shaddam and Zur. 

"Father," the boy greeted respectfully. He was rounder-faced than his father, his lips thinner and almost delicate. His skin was much paler. His eyes were like his father's, though. He glanced over at the slave. "So this is your precious Zur." 

"Yes. How are your lessons going?" 

They both turned to the hanging prisoner. Though bloody and filthy, the man had no visible wounds. "Quite interesting. I never realized what a man can live through." 

"Don't get too complacent. Things he lives through would kill other prisoners. I know; I've done it myself." 

Father and son shared an amused smile. "Still," the boy said, "I find it difficult to believe you've had him since before I was born." 

Shaddam laughed. "Oh, yes." He reached over and pulled Zur to stand in front of him. "Do you remember him?" he asked. Zur's knees felt weak as Shaddam's hand strayed across his nipples. "He stole you from my home and I searched for you. Then the gods sent lightning to tell me where you were. I arrived too late, sweet one. I saw him throw your body into the river. But I knew you would heal as you always do." 

Zur could not remember, though he tried. He could only stare at the prisoner hanging limply on the wall and remember that he himself had hung so, before he remembered who he was. 

Shaddam turned to Akomaru. "When you come of age, I may give you Zur as a present. Would you like that?" 

Akomaru looked surprised. "Seriously?" At his father's nod, the boy turned and contemplated Zur. "I'd like to try him out." 

"Be my guest." 

Zur stood still obediently as Shaddam moved away and sat down. Akomaru took a noose that hung from a pulley, and dropped the noose over Zur's head. He tightened it and then pulled in the slack. Zur was forced to stand on his toes to keep breathing. He could see Shaddam watching, smiling ever so slightly. Akomaru drew a stool over so he could stand on it, then began a careful perusal of Zur's body. Like his father would, he ran his fingers along the angles and planes of the lithe form. Like his father, he touched in certain ways that made Zur's body ache with need. And as with Shaddam, Zur made neither sound nor effort, though he was beginning to tremble from holding himself on his toes so that he did not choke. 

Zur's breathing was cut off when Akomaru entered him. He did not resist as his arms and legs began to numb, and his head seemed to swell. The sliding feeling intensified along with everything else as sparks of light danced in his eyes and faded into blackness. Then the blackness opened in tiny increments. Shaddam was lifting him to ease the pull on his neck. Akomaru was taking the rope off. 

"Not bad. Though I like mine to respond." 

"He's been away too long. When he's yours, you can re-train him as you like. But for now, I want him passive and accepting." 

The words meant nothing to Zur. Only the approval in Shaddam's voice mattered. It had been a test, of sorts, to see if he could behave well while his life was draining away. He had passed. 

* * *

Palpable shock, a flame of empathic horror. "Methos...." 

The eldest stopped him with a trembling touch. There was an odd blur of thought and sound, too mangled to make out, before he communicated again. "Were you ever lost so thoroughly? I don't know anything about you, really." He was still for a time before a hopeless sigh gusted from him. "The events that happened next won't make sense unless I... these memories are not my own, but compiled from what Silas... Silas told me. He was my friend. It was his head I took, a few weeks before I met Grey, and you." 

* * *

Silas drank deeply but not in volume. If he were free to do as he pleased, he would have drunk far into the night and retired to his tent at home with one or two of the women. But he was not free. He was in the fortress, pretending to be one of Shaddam's men, eating and drinking with them. Kronos was gone, vanished four moons ago into the depths of the fortress they were spying on. Where has he taken you, brother? I thought no wall or chain could hold you. For nothing seemed to stop Kronos. 

Kronos had negotiated with Zaidosu, who had hired him for an infernal amount of jewels and trade goods. Kronos had merrily invited Silas to join him and the two of them had infiltrated Shaddam's stronghold. Then the warlord's spy identified Kronos. It was well known that Shaddam took few prisoners and suborned those who were of interest to him. Silas was sure Kronos would be interesting, since he was in Shaddam's own dining hall before being discovered and probably would never have been except for that spy. Oh, when Kronos got free and they got their hands on that one.... 

For three moons after Kronos was taken away, Silas was paralyzed with indecision. Craft and subterfuge were not usually his areas of expertise. The plan they had made only accounted for capture as far as how long it would take to get killed and escape when their bodies were dumped. Desperation, though, finally provoked him. The key was another Immortal, whom it took him most of that time to identify. Shaddam's personal slave, a slender, appealing looking man. Silas' plan was, of necessity, simple. He watched the young man, at first covertly, then allowing it to be more obvious. Eventually Shaddam noticed. 

"He's quite something, isn't he?" the warlord asked Silas that day. Silas played dumb, blanking his face and opening his blue eyes wide. That inevitably made people underestimate him. Shaddam's smile was indulgent and proud. A man in power who had no doubts of his surroundings. "My Zur," he indicated the slave who turned toward them at the sound of his name. 

Silas swallowed nervously. "Yes, he's pretty." 

Shaddam considered Silas, taking in his pale skin, light blue eyes and deceptive soft, cushy skin. Then Shaddam took again a look at Zur. Perhaps he thought this was a superb opportunity to test his slave's obedience. "You may have him for tonight." Silas gaped at him, astonished by this generosity. "Do not mark him, I like his skin the way it is," he said firmly. 

Silas nodded rapidly. "Thank you!" 

"Zur, come!" Shaddam called. Zur crossed the room quickly to stand before his master. Smiling, Shaddam traced proprietary fingers along his jawline, tilting his head. "Zur, you go with this man, obey him tonight." He looked up again sternly at Silas. "You must remember to tell him to sleep, or he will not." 

"Yes, sir." Silas was still gaping, only in astonishment at the success of his stratagem. 

His guard commander allowed him the use of a private room, clearly thinking Silas was favored and thus must be coddled. Silas had no intention of disabusing him of the notion. Alone in the room he carefully studied Zur, who stood spiritlessly under his gaze. Silas was as indifferent to the sufferings of another Immortal as he was to a mortal's, and he needed to find Kronos. He shook his head. He drew Zur over to him and studied the blank face. "Do you know Kronos?" he asked sternly. Zur nodded. Silas groped for something to do or say that would make this chain of events progress. The simplest way might be the best. "I am hungry. Fetch me a platter of meat and fruits. Have Kronos help you bring it to me. No one else." Zur nodded again. Silas released him and sent him through the door. 

* * *

"Explain," a curt demand. 

"Explain what?" 

Stern demand. "The clarity of Silas' feelings and thoughts do not seem secondhand." 

A quiet moment, thoughtful and sad. "We rode together for over a thousand years. I knew him... well." He shivered slightly. "And perhaps it is because I have his Quickening. And Zur's perspective was so narrow, none of this would make sense if shared only from his point of view." 

* * *

Zur went down into the dungeons of the keep. It never occurred to him to wonder why he must have Kronos help him with the platter. Shaddam had told him to obey, so anything that pleased Silas would be done. The guardsmen glanced up, surprised to see him come into their domain. He did not look at them, but followed the sudden pain in his head, the twist in his stomach that always occurred when he was near Kronos or the prisoner Shaddam trained torturers on, and now with the man he was to please tonight. There Kronos was, huddled naked in the corner, dark hair lank and caked with blood. Shaddam allowed the guards their way with him. Zur tugged at Kronos' shoulder and the man opened wild eyes, pulling farther back into the wall. Zur tugged on him again until he rose and followed. The guards stared after them curiously. 

They went to the kitchens and Zur selected some of the best cuts of meat and fruits until they had a heaping platter. It was inconvenient even for the two of them. They were in the empty hall on route to the room Silas waited in, when they lost their footing and went down, desperately trying to keep the food on the platter. Kronos, obviously expecting to be punished, glared wildly at Zur. He hissed suddenly, "Really beat the defiance out of YOU, didn't he? I'd have expected more of someone your age, Methos." 

Zur stared at him in total confusion. Then he heard a scream. Yet it was not from outside, but from within himself. A scream of utter rage that blasted through his senses, and the world went black. 

* * *

Methos stumbled to a halt again in his sharing. He tried to pull away, but this time it was with worn anguish. "Kronos. He... I... I..." 

Tran held onto him, shivering in the cold, empty memories. "Show me." 

* * *

Everything was fuzzy and blurry except for the dizzying presence of another Immortal. He moved weakly in the fog, responding to some underlying sense of danger. He was exposed and if he was not very careful he might be caught. There was something... something he was supposed to be doing.... His surroundings were slowly becoming identifiable, but they were still murky and dark. A quiet, wary voice reached his ears, its edges twisted. "Methos?" 

He blinked with the sudden passage of wind-tossed rage and fear. Dangerous to answer to his name. What was he supposed to be doing? He groped and found it. "...must bring the food...." He began to get up, moving to counterbalance the tray. He could feel the edges, but he could not bring it into focus. He was aware that there was someone else on the other side of the tray who took a moment too long to assist in lifting it, but then they were able to move on down the hall. 

There was another Immortal close by. The door ahead of them opened and a giant looked through. Aside from the impression of size and light hair, everything was still blurry. It was easy to move from the darkness of the corridor to the lighted room. It was hard to grab onto things. He stopped and tried to find his balance rather than let his attention drift to all the edges that suddenly leaped out at him from his surroundings, while all else remained hazy. 

A deep voice broke into his attention. "Brother!" Methos turned to see the bear-man reaching out and shaking the other man. This one, he realized suddenly, was familiar. His mind replaced filth and starvation with clean skin and hard muscle. The man had called himself Kronos, and had willingly violated Methos when he was helpless. 

Kronos responded immediately to the other man's touch, grabbing his wrist tight and staring intently into his eyes. The big man laughed boomingly. Kronos' grin was feral and brief. "We must get out of here! Bastard'll pay if only we can get to Zaidosu." Oh yes, Shaddam's great enemy. The warlord spent every night planning attacks and musing on what he would do with the man when he won. How did they imagine getting to Zaidosu would help? The fortress was incredibly well shored up, with years of food supplies and it held the high roads in its control. 

The big man seemed aware of this fact. "I don't know how, brother. I might be able to get away, but how could we convince Zaidosu to believe us?" 

The room had finally come completely into focus. Cold fury almost overwhelmed all else. Methos snapped, "Forget Zaidosu. Shaddam is MINE!" The two men jumped and turned to look at him. 

Kronos blinked once, then his eyes narrowed and his lips twisted into a sneer. "Yours? You're very brave in this room, Methos! But I'll wager anything when you see him you'll fall to your knees!" 

Rage icing through him, Methos stepped close to Kronos. "I fake obedience. You didn't even try to disobey him." 

Kronos' mocking smile widened. He purred, "Oh, you were just such a pretty picture all trussed up that day!" 

Methos snarled and launched himself at Kronos. The two men would have torn each other apart barehanded but for the big man stepping between them. He shoved them to opposite sides of the room and faced Methos from Kronos' side. "How will you escape after you kill Shaddam?" he asked. 

"Escape?" Methos breathed. He shook his head. What was wrong with him? He was alive, he would get revenge, but he had not thought as far as escape! Almost amused, he found himself calming down. Controls that he had forgotten came to his aid and the roiling of his emotions settled. "Escape." He stopped speaking and let his mind show him all the data it had accumulated. A plan formed and leaped out, edges sharp with vicious sureness. He turned his attention to the other two men. "There is another Immortal prisoner here. Shaddam trains the torturers with him. He'll be an excellent ally. If you do as I tell you, we won't have to escape. There will be no one left to stop us." 

Kronos bared his teeth and stepped forward. "I don't obey a slave." 

Methos turned the full wildness of his dark gaze to meet the other man's blazing eyes. If this man were fool enough, he would have to take his head somehow. But if he could convince him, then there would be time enough for head taking later. He shuttered away that smug knowledge and spoke. "I know this fortress. I know how to poison it. What we want we can take, once they are ALL dead." 

Startled, Kronos took a step closer. He thrust his face close into Methos' space and they studied each other. 

They were quite a contrast: the slim, taller man in his simple tunic, standing as if he felt nothing; and the shorter, naked man matted with filth and vibrating with rage. 

Methos saw at last a glimmer of will in those eyes. The man would do it. He refrained from nodding and asked, "Are you capable of going back to the dungeon and pretending to be as you were?" 

Kronos bared his teeth in a ghastly parody of a smile. "There isn't anything I can't do." He backed up a bit and raked his eyes over Methos' body, leering. 

Methos stared at him until the lechery faded into threatening cunning. "We can kill this place. Destroy Shaddam and his men. Shaddam and his son particularly." The memory of being hung from the ceiling and raped shook him with hate. 

Kronos seemed to drop all vestiges of lust and settle into a businesslike determination. "Tell me your plan." 

Kronos was gone, and the guards in the dungeon would attribute his shaking, bound energy to fear in the slave Shaddam had made him. Methos thought of Shaddam's brilliant, seeking eyes. At any time the warlord could come and retrieve his slave. If he noticed that anything had changed, Methos would probably be hanging from the ceiling in the dark again. The Immortal felt no fear but a deep and abiding rage. He had no intention of being made helpless in anyone's hands ever again. The stillness in his mind would be too easy for Shaddam to see. He drew several slow, deep breaths. He silenced his sense of self, recalled the small mote of being that had taken his place for so long and retreated into the darkness, leaving it in his place. 

Zur had done what he was told. He had brought the man -- he had heard the name at some point, Silas, was it? -- food with Kronos' help. The time after that, as with much of his life, was a blank he knew better than to try to pierce. He waited for the big man to take him. Idly he wondered how it would happen. From behind, or only in his mouth? 

The huge man was watching him. Zur had noticed early on how pleasant hearing the man's deep voice was. As if his thought was the trigger, the man spoke. "Be yourself, Methos," he said suddenly. Zur knew better than to respond to that name. That was the pain-name. So, this was a test. I'll be good, master, he thought to Shaddam. Please. Silas crossed the room and stood in front of him. The big man pulled him close against a mass of muscle. Zur felt oddly drawn to him. The huge hands stroked Zur's arms and chest. They tipped his face upwards to stare with frank curiosity into his eyes. "Methos," he called. Silas' touch was rough, without artifice. As such there was a certain cleanness to his actions that the things Shaddam did had not. Zur was puzzled by the sudden restless pleasure that coursed through him. "Methos," Silas called again. 

It happened suddenly. Zur was pushed aside into the warm, peaceful quiet place. 

Methos had to fight to hold back a groan as Silas rubbed powerfully over his penis. The blue eyes that met his dance with merry laughter and desire. He mustered his rage. 

Then Silas asked him calmly, "What do you want, Methos?" 

Astonishment quivered in him. The anger he had felt faded rapidly away as he met the mischievous blue eyes. He brought his hands up to either side of Silas' face. "For you to finish what you started," he said huskily. "And to hear you call my name." 

Silas leaned close and kissed Methos roughly before saying, "Then that is what you will get, brother." 

It was Silas who brought the poison, and Methos who gathered and hid it until there was sufficient to truly foul the wells. Kronos found the whole idea hilarious. "I'll have to remember this in the future," he said. "An excellent way to handle large groups of enemies." 

Getting to the prisoner in the dungeons was a more difficult measure. Methos was able to do it. When Shaddam's men were beginning to suffer the effects of the poison, Methos would cut Caspian (for that was his name) loose. The guards who remained would be too busy trying to recapture him to realize what was happening before it was too late. Startlingly enough Caspian was remarkably clear-headed when Methos at last managed to talk to him. Nonetheless, there was a wildcat madness in his eyes. "I want Shaddam," Caspian said. 

"Share him with me," Methos offered. 

"Hey, a little teamwork could be fun. Do I get to take any heads?" 

"We never raise a blade against each other," Methos replied firmly. 

Caspian cocked his head, his grin ghastly under the dried blood on his face. "Well, there're plenty of other people to raise a blade against!" 

* * *

Methos hugged himself. "We killed them, all except one. Caspian and I tortured Shaddam to death. Akomaru was the one we took from that massacre. He was our first camp whore. He died eventually. Caspian and Kronos had an almost instant affinity. I set the guidelines of our partnership and we soon became a most dangerous band of brothers." 

"How long was Silas your lover?" 

Methos laughed. "He was not exactly my lover." He was suddenly at a loss for words. He hesitated for a long time. At last, he said softly, "There were times when I would feel myself slipping and I was not certain who I was. Whenever that happened, I would seek out Silas. He'd throw out whoever was in his tent. We'd stay the night together, and somehow I would come out of it feeling strong and in control of myself." 

Tran hesitated before asking, "Who took who?" 

Again, Methos laughed. "Neither. Reciprocal masturbation. Neither of us were bottom men. Especially not me since...." 

"I can understand that." Tran shook himself. What Methos had been through in that long ago time was not far from what Tran had been through. It was like looking in a mirror. He breathed in. "How long did it take you to recover your sanity? I know you rode with them for at least a thousand years." 

"It took most of that time." 

Exhalation, and grief. "She died for nothing, then." 

"No. No, she didn't. If it hadn't been for her sacrifice..." Methos cut himself off. He was tired of telling his tales. Tran did not need to know that the injury Chichinquane had dealt Methos was probably what saved Cassandra's life when he saw her escaping the camp. He did not feel like explaining how many times over that thousand years he had left the Horsemen, then come back like an addict to his heroin. Of course heroin had not existed back then, he thought ruefully, but the analogy was apt. 

"I would never have been able to leave that life. It was so... easy. It was so alive. In truth, for most of those thousand years I loved it. We hated each other at first, but later it was as though we were extensions of each other. It would take almost four centuries before I began to want something outside of the group we formed...." 

Tran was tired, too. He said calmly, "No more. Words are enough for anything else." 

You aren't getting out of this that easily. "No, they aren't," Methos replied with firm determination. When Tran reacted with simple puzzlement, the older Immortal added, "I want to know about you and Grey. About that year he doesn't remember." 

A breath of anguish. A stream of self-loathing. "No." 

Implacable determination in Methos. "You owe me. Your past for mine."


	3. Mirror, Mirror, On the Wall

  
  
Fire and Sea...dige

**Part 1: More Than I Could Handle**

Grey was out buying groceries with the intention of making dinner. Mariah had paid for their breakfast at a cafe down the street that morning. She sat cross-legged on Methos' bed. For the first time since they had arrived in Paris, she was alone with her thoughts and emotions. The anger came and went. She let it go as Tran had taught her to do and thought about its cause. A brief indignation flared against Tran. How dare you let your emotions make you irrational?! she would have snapped at him if he was present. It was you who taught me to ignore mine and simply act based on facts, she thought. Well, she did not always do so. That hardly mattered. She agreed with Grey; Tran did not really want to die but believed he should. 

And that was why her anger flared at Grey. Her dear friend had decided to push Tran into action, sending him against the oldest known Immortal: Methos, the real man within the charming, puppy-like Adam Pierson. She barely knew the shell, much less the man within. She only knew that he had healed Grey when they had failed. If only she could have healed Dige. Ah, but he was an entirely different matter than Grey. 

Hah. She glanced around the flat, annoyed at its blandness. Dige had always surrounded himself, and therefore her, with colors. He loved brightness and contrasts to such distraction that sometimes he would buy something appalling just for that. She let the tears slide down her face unhindered. The two of them had seen so much of the world together. They had journeyed while Tran and Grey stayed at home. They had playfully challenged each other to learn new languages and skills. They had sometimes separated for a few decades to live with mortal lovers. And they always had a home to return to, the two prodigals bringing excitement to the quiet lives their two teachers led. 

How Tran and Grey must have worried about them, wondering each time they left if this time both of them would return. She had lived with the same not-knowing before, sometimes for years. Somehow, the last seventy-two hours had been much harder to endure than even when their attacks were against someone incredibly dangerous. Grey would not even try to find Tran or Methos. Very well. She would not, either. But there was something she could do. 

It was difficult not to snoop in the Methos' life, but there were so few things here that perhaps she could not learn anything new, anyway. She composed herself, forced a stop to the endless wanderings about Methos' flat. She settled on Methos' bed, half-amused that she and Grey had appropriated it. She remembered Tran's familiar Presence. In the stillness of her center, she dropped her barriers and released herself into the void between individuals. There was that wonderful floating sensation as she oriented. It took no work, her mind knew what it sought and found it quickly. There he was, with another Immortal in close proximity. She quashed her temptation to initiate contact with Tran and withdrew. 

As she settled back into her body, Grey's return touched her and she smiled, high in the relief and over-energized by her short outing. 

Grey had purchased two bags of groceries. He could sense Mariah easily, her Presence clear in that brief instant before he stepped closer and she rang like every other Immortal. She opened the door for him and waited until he set the groceries on the table before leaping into his arms. 

"Welcome home, darling!" she managed, then burst into laughter. 

He hugged her and spun her around playfully before swinging his arm under her legs and cradling the giggling woman. "What? What?" he asked hopefully. 

She shook her head and nestled against him. "I did search-trance. He's alive and I think it must be Methos who is with him." 

Grey let out a whoop and heaved her into the air, catching her again as she shrieked with delight. "That's a GREAT sign!" 

"Sh! Sh, dah-ling! The neighbors will get suspicious." 

Still laughing, they put away the groceries. Though this hope seemed small against all that might happen, it was far better than earlier. 

* * *

Two men confronted each other, standing in an African landscape locked in eternal twilight. The smaller man trembled. The taller was as still as the rocks around them. The taller man spoke, his voice low and soft, but with a tinge of anger. "My own lover does not know as much about me as you do." 

The smaller man spun away. As he did so, he shrank. A man stood there no longer but a boy. Tran bent down and picked up a small rock. He threw it with all his strength. It whistled, an imaginary missile traveling through imaginary air. He felt Methos come up behind him. As he picked up another stone, a large hand closed over his wrist. It did not grip him. Cool acceptance came from the oldest, along with calm determination. He jerked his arm free in sudden fear and caught the man's wrist to bite it. But he could not. He could close his mouth on the flesh, but could not bring himself to bite. Surprise rippled from the man through that point of contact. Methos' other hand slid around Tran's torso to press reassuringly against his chest. Tran felt Methos curl around him gently. 

Such willing intimacy. Hungers he had been largely ignoring at every seemingly seductive move Methos made flared, attempting to drive his actions. Can I distract you from your curiosity? Perhaps I can seduce you. Or perhaps I could find that fear again, the fear that you will become Zur. 

But that would be a cruel reaction to his own fear. He battered against his rage, against his need to control and the dark desire to have this man at his mercy. Methos had given him everything he had asked for. 

He remembered Grey telling him that Adam Pierson was nonjudgmental and like a dog worrying a bone when he wanted to know something. How nonjudgmental are you, Methos? "Damn you," Tran whispered. He felt knotted up, almost irrational with fear. 

"Been there, done that," Methos murmured. His body was warm against Tran's back. He caressed Tran's chest with both hands, seductively. 

Tran shivered and closed his hands over the other man's, stilling their sensuous movement. "Are you offering me this in exchange for my memories?" he said flatly. He tightened his grip. 

The hands pulled him closer. "Grey loves you. I think he would not begrudge us this." 

"You have HIM. Why on Earth would you want me?" Did Methos have a secret inclination toward pedophilia? Beyond that the unspoken question reverberated in Tran, DO you want me? 

Methos was silent for a long time, resting his hands in Tran's. At last he said, "You have been a fascination for me ever since I learned of your existence. No, my tastes do not run to children. But then, you are only physically a child." 

The feeling ran deep and Tran understood. It was the need to be with someone like himself. Someone who had lived so long and seen so much vanish in the dust of time. He grimaced. "I was not crazed from a Quickening." 

Methos shrugged. "Perhaps it would have happened eventually even without the Quickening. There had been occasions when I wanted to kill for riches, when I wanted power. The Quickening only removed my... restraints." 

"Hm." Tran lifted Methos' hands and stared at them. They were large, square and flat palmed, fingers long and strong. Tran preferred greater delicacy in his partners. He had never bothered to rid himself of a fear of much stronger bedmates. Methos was appealing to look at, to touch, to hear, but he was also very tall and strong. "The last time I knew a man in that way was before the Christian era," Tran said calmly. 

He felt a momentary shock of surprise from Methos. "But I thought you and Grey were...." The Eldest's startlement faded to embarrassment. 

"It was Grey." Tran laced his fingers through the other man's. "He has the dubious honor of being the only man I ever bedded for love." He spun and caught Methos' face between his palms. "I have been raped, I have raped. And I have whored." 

"So have I," Methos whispered back. 

Tran released him and held instead his own head. "Love him though I do -- and he loves me -- we are NOT physically suited. He needs a strong body to match his." He gave a sudden short laugh. "And I find his size intimidating. He made love to me. I could not reciprocate... I could not satisfy him, so I broke it off. I set him free to find lovers who were worthy of him." 

"Does he know?" 

Tran turned away. The knot of his heart was clear. He could not face those accepting eyes. 

Methos again closed his arms gently around Tran. "He doesn't know you feel unworthy of his love." 

Tran shrugged but accepted the touch. "What's to love?" A body that will never grow, an emotional cripple, a cruel, murderous master? Someone who fails the people who need him...? 

A flash of startled anger from Methos, then the older man spun him around, hands hard on his biceps. "Is this self-pity?" 

Tran jerked himself free, feeling his lips curl back over his teeth as he crouched, glaring up into the other man's eyes. The air between them filled with the scent of blood. "I have no pity for myself. The Gathering calls me, not with the voice it had ten years ago, but it still calls! There are very few Immortals I would fear to challenge! If you take my head, then at least I won't have to fear --" he broke off and pressed his lips together, looking away and frantically trying to rein in his emotions. 

But Methos closed his eyes and nodded slowly. It did not need to be said. There was not an Immortal who did not feel the same. Tran had simply avoided the fears for a long time, by loving only those three others who were near him. The urges, so difficult to deny ten years ago, about the time Methos had hidden in the Watchers, had probably been hell on the small Immortal as he suffered through nightmares of taking his friends' heads. As all Immortals were taught: "We will be drawn to a distant land, there to fight for the Prize." Then the Watcher, James Horton, had begun his campaign to kill off Immortals. Knowing what he did, Methos had understood the sudden release of pressure. He knew, too, that this was only a temporary respite. 

This time it was Methos who caught Tran's face between his hands. He did not grip but held loosely. There is nothing you need to hide from me. You can't have done anything worse than I have. This I will show you. Then it is your turn. And I will stand with you through it, he told Tran. 

Tran closed his eyes for a moment. He could find no measure by which he did not owe Methos his past. Yet here the oldest was offering one more thing. Tran, with a strength he was almost incapable of acknowledging he had, opened himself up to receive the tale. 

The heavy curtains kept out the chill air of the desert night. Sounds filtered through: sometimes deep laughter, sometimes a cry of pain, sometimes the noises of distant desert creatures. And there, tied to the post that held the tent up, lit by the flames of candles, a work of astonishing beauty. 

The candle flame played over the soft curves of breasts, the lines of the rib cage and vanished into the darkness high between the splayed thighs, under the shaved mound. Oh, how she had fought that! He had killed her twice before she lay limp under the other slaves' ministrations. He could have had it done while she was dead, but he wanted her aware of the impossibility of thwarting his will. Her head hung to the side, a thick roll of cloth tied between her teeth forcing her lips apart. She was still on her knees, her back arched. She would revive soon. It occurred to him that he had not yet taken her name, nor given her one. That did not really matter. He liked the way her russet hair curled and the faint dusky tint of her skin. There had been that one African amongst her nomadic tribe. Perhaps she had some of that blood in her veins. Perhaps when she began to obey him willingly he would reward her with her name. 

Now was not a time for rewards, though. Now was a time for punishments! His blood thrilled at the thought. Her presence suddenly rang through him. A moment later she stirred, then started awake. Her eyes opened feverishly wide. He came close and caught her hair in his hands, jerking her face upward so that he could look into it. 

"No spitting allowed," he informed her icily. He jabbed his dirk into her cheek and stepped back to watch as she coughed and choked. The light played on her twitching body and he felt himself grow tight with anticipation. The wound healed, though trickles of blood remained on her cheek, lines of it tracing a path down her neck and across her right breast. Tempted beyond endurance, he leaned down and licked the blood away. Then he caught her nipple between his teeth and bit it through. She would have screamed if the gag had allowed. He hooked his fingers between her legs and into her passage. It was dry, of course, but her agonized struggles made him feel hot and heavy. He licked at the wound he had made. The sharp lances of tiny lightnings coursed through him as the flesh reshaped itself. The nipple was new and under his tongue it had formed hard. He could hear the girl moaning in revulsion even as his hand felt her grow moist. 

"No pouring my drink on me, only for me," he said, jamming his dirk between her ribs, avoiding the areas that would kill her. He continued cataloging her various defiances made over the five days since he had taken her. "No overspicing the food," he said, stabbing her a little lower. "No more running away," he whispered in her ear as his dirk found her ribs again. 

Five wounds down her right side for each of the five days were bleeding, the oldest just beginning to heal, when Methos pushed the girl's thighs farther apart and guided himself into her. She had dried while he had been stabbing her, and his entry caused her pain and him some small amount, though his juices served to slicken his entry. He thought of having Silas on the other side of her, and both of them entering her at once. The thought spiked his lust. He let it, racing to this first orgasm of the night. He did not anticipate that it would take long before he controlled her utterly. She was just a child, after all. And - this filled him with glee - she had no idea what she was. She seemed bright enough. Eventually she might realize that it was not he who was keeping her alive. For now, he would not give her the time alone to discover it. He always made certain his was the first face she saw when she recovered from death. Perhaps when she had obeyed him long enough, he would tell her Immortality was her reward. He came, digging his fingers into the small of her back, biting the flesh of her neck hard enough to break the skin. 

Oh, the healing was nice, a fringe benefit of her Immortality. He did not have to tend her wounds or else see her sicken. There had been perhaps two slaves that he had enjoyed enough to take care of when ill. The novelty always wore off fairly quickly. Nothing seemed to hold his attention for long. 

Breathing hard, he separated from her and sat back to study her body again. Perfection! He had yet to meet a female Immortal who was not a study in beauty. And this baby could be shaped to be his perfect pet. Not passive. No, he did not want passive. He would teach her to desire to please him. First, however, he would have to break her defiance. He kept a very careful watch over her so that she should not fall afoul of Caspian or Kronos in one of her escape attempts. They would want a reward for catching her. He wanted her all to himself for now. Later, though, (and his need became urgent) he would invite Silas to share her! 

He touched his lips to her ear and felt her cringe. "You need fear nothing but me," he said softly, hearing the little sobs she made. "You will never escape me, little one. You will be what I desire you to be. You will not feel, nor grow, nor hope to be other than what I teach you." He slid his fingers again into her entry and slowly stroked the flesh slickened by his juices. "I told you, you live as long as you please me. It pleases me to teach you." 

He pressed his lips to her neck and began again the litany of her offenses, this time stabbing the dirk down her left side. She twisted, trying to escape the torment. Her body writhed against his. He caught her newly healed nipple between his fingers and rolled it, squeezing tightly. Her agony was beautiful to see. She had no idea where to turn to let the pain die. He moved slowly to draw it out, not wanting to waste himself or the long night ahead. He wished the light cast by the candles was brighter so that he could see better the green eyes awash with tears. 

He put his dirk against her entry and she froze. He froze, too. This should be saved for among the last, no matter that he felt heat and passion such as he had not felt in centuries. He struggled to control the rapid pace of his breathing and managed at last to slow it. He slid the dirk upwards, leaving a fine trail of slit flesh in its wake. He made whorls around her breast and watched the path heal shut to vanish as though it had never been. He was having so much fun with her Immortality, he had to remind himself to lecture her on proper behavior. 

Hours later she was too exhausted to even flinch from the dirk. Her skin was dimmed by blood. Methos was pleased. She would not forget the punishments he meted out for defiance. He ran his hand down her sides and she looked at him through her exhaustion. He smiled and moved his thumb to find the tiny nub of flesh above her entry and stroked it until her body began to tremble and her flesh grew slick. Her eyes were dark pools of confused fear. 

He whispered softly, "Please me, and I will reward you. Nothing will harm you while you are mine. Continue to disobey and...." It was time. He reached, not for his dirk but for his long dagger. He dropped his hand from her entry and slammed the dagger in. Blood and other fluids gushed over his hand as he twisted the blade. If she had not been gagged, her scream would have probably woken the dead. Her body jerked spastically, her legs lashing wide. Hardened by what he had done, he tore the blade out of her flesh and entered her. Hard as a rock, he thought, pumping in to her depths. As her torn flesh began to re-construct itself around him, he came again. 

Tran's agitation had grown during the reliving. He at last broke away, but in Methos' quiet place they knelt face to face, each with a hand behind the other man's head. Tran was breathing hard. He ignored the fire burning through his body. He cupped his erection to hide it, but Methos' hand came down on his and pressed. He hissed. "Damn you." Reluctantly, he saw his reaction mirrored in Methos. 

"I fell in love with her," Methos said softly. "She trusted me and at least thought she loved me. She thought I would protect her. Kronos saw this and knew he had found a weakness of mine. The funny thing is, he was trying to protect me from myself when he took her from me. She killed him with his own dagger, and I watched her flee into the night. I let her go. I did not see her again for...." 

Tran's erection was easing and he shivered in relief. He was appalled and horrified at how deeply he had been caught up in the vision. "Do you know what happened to her?" 

A mischievous smile curled the edges of Methos' lips. "She lives. She has the Sight, the Voice and the ability to cast illusions. She and I... have made our peace. But it took Grey's intervention before it could happen." 

Tran shivered. Of course it was Grey. Something in him weakened and he dropped his hands to his lap. Methos' hands came behind his head and gently forced his gaze up. The hated question was still there between them. Tran swallowed. "I haven't your courage." 

Methos tilted his head thoughtfully. He moved suddenly, flinging Tran onto his back and gripping the smaller man's hands to hold him down. He glared firmly into the black eyes. "You must choose. I will not force you and I will NOT take your head to relieve the guilt you feel." He bent down and brushed his lips gently, searchingly, across Tran's. He repeated the gesture as Tran opened his mouth and invited the touch. 

"I will try," Tran whispered suddenly. "But you'd better realize if we continue in this vein you're going to have to bed Mariah, too." 

Methos chuckled. "From none to one, to three lovers... ah, I shall be rich!" Tran caught an impression of Grey's face, his strong and playful expression. 

He reached up and pulled Methos down on him. "Come," he breathed. 

And with that he slipped away from the Eldest's quiet place, feeling the mote of the other man's attention travel with him. They were so close together. He had twined himself deeply into Methos' thoughts to find them both cold and achingly lonely. The two of them were much alike in many ways. 

To go deep into himself and find his own quiet place; that was the challenge. And do I even have a quiet place? His self was rather unexplored territory. Methos did not seem to know the paths, had been stunned to find himself there when he had followed Tran into his own depths. Methos at least had accepted himself, however much it hurt. That took a kind of courage Tran was afraid he did not have. Again he wondered, but this time with more wonder than disbelief, how Methos stayed sane with the memories of his past. 

They spiraled in until they found Tran's final barrier. It stood before them bristling like the pointed blades of a million swords. Threatening and sinister, a wall to keep the unwanted out. Tran was not surprised; this was his own place, after all. From Methos came curiosity but no fear. The Eldest, Tran had noticed, tended to be singular in his emotional reactions. Throwing himself into one role or another, he left the rest of himself and reacted from that one viewpoint. Tran steadied himself. Like Methos, he would be brave enough to open his own barriers. 

The spears came through him and around. He pushed them aside and the gate opened; they were both pulled into the vortex. They clung to each other as they spun. At last the sense of movement subsided and they were drifting. 

Methos opened his awareness to find void. Timelessness, rest, release. "No!" he whispered. Then he became aware of the other he held with him. "Tran?" he said urgently. There was a vague stirring. Understanding touched Methos and he shook the other awareness until it focused on him. "Is this the only peace you've ever known?" he asked. 

Tran's response was sluggish. "No peace like it," he murmured. 

For Tran's quiet place remembered the moment before an Immortal's body woke from death. That moment when they felt that there was nothing more that they had to do. Methos tightened his grip on the other man, feeling an agonized sympathy which he was forced to dampen. He groped and found what seemed to be the mechanism by which Tran had come into his memories. "Are you ready?" he asked. 

Tran's awareness shifted and whispered, "Come." 

Methos went, sprawling his attention into every nook and cranny and pushing carefully in where there seemed to be no more space. There were dull shocks and he moved more slowly, setting up a reverberation of pleasure similar to what Tran had given him. He felt Tran gasping as the sensations wavered between sheer pleasure and frightening invasion. Then a balance was achieved. Two minds occupying one place. Methos stroked the other brilliant awareness, shifted with it as it stretched against him. "How did you meet Grey?" he asked. 

A roil and stir as the mind reached, seeking the answer, and their present selves were silenced. 

**700 BCE**

The great trees towered over him, the bitter deep scent of their sap pervaded the air. Underneath that scent, the odor of deer and many another animal. He had seen sign of wolf, bear and other predators. He felt a faint stirring of amusement. So too am I a predator, he thought. Here was the scent of water. Great, clear lakes dominated the area, or so he remembered from the last time he had passed through it almost four centuries earlier. The horse and the dogs hid in a thicket. Pity he would not have a herd or a pack again to surround and protect him. Why had he wasted the rest? 

His memory gave him the answer even as he thought the question. He stopped, forcing his eyes open to take in as much of his surroundings as could be seen. He sought to drown the image of a lifeless face, red hair glued to lax skin and blue lips below wide, murky green eyes. Dead eyes. How had it happened that a small child had mounted a strange, black horse? As Tran had trained it to, the horse had gone into a lake and the child drowned. The villagers had come in droves, hunting with fire and spear the black faerie who had taken away a little girl whose fate was unknown. He had watched their approach and almost let them catch him, before centuries of survival instinct kicked in and he leapt onto a fast-traveling gelding and rode. Days later only four of his hunting dogs caught up with him. He had rubbed their ears and seen no censure, for the animals had not quite the intelligence to realize they had been abandoned to their fate. Two of them were injured from burns and deep wounds. They died soon after they found him. 

He tossed his head, the girl's image banished. He held onto the hunting villagers as the reason he had fled. Never again would he have a herd or pack, because there would be too many and someone determined could track him. No, keep it simple. A horse and two dogs, well trained, would be quite enough. 

For now, however, he had his own quarry to track. He licked his lips, smug even after the pain of the recent Quickening he had taken. Adult Immortals (indeed, mortal adults) were too willing to attack what they perceived as easy prey. He did not know the man's name, but that had not mattered. He only knew that when the other found himself defeated, he had tried to offer Tran different prey: an Immortal surrounded by savage, violent mortal guards, whose tribe was enslaving all others within its reach. The tribe's custom was to cut off the heads of dead enemies and display them on pikes. Logically, Immortals traveling into the region avoided the area as soon as they learned about it. Tran, though, could control mortals. He was curious to see if the rumors were true. So he went straight into the hornet's nest. 

The afternoon sun was high in the sky by the time Tran reached his destination. It was a shelter made of sod and stone like most such in this region, but bigger than the others he had passed in coming. It stood apart, surrounded by great trees and bush. Tran maneuvered himself to a location that would give him a good view of the scene before him. Six huge guards stood holding three equally huge prisoners. Several other men stood around them, many soft looking. They must be some of the leader's sycophants. Tran noticed with interest that the prisoners were beardless, freshly shaved. He wondered why. Even from this distance he could see the defiance and fear in their postures. His eyes narrowed as an even taller figure stepped from the building. 

He was a muscular, strong-looking man. Like the prisoners he was naked and, Tran was impressed to see, hung like a horse. Interesting coloring. His long hair was pulled back into a heavy braid that hung below his waist, its silvery strands catching the light. Too far away to catch more details, Tran noted the man's long, luxurious beard and suspected that the prisoners must have been shaved as part of some enslaving ritual. He was not close enough to tell if the man was Immortal. There was a simple test, though. He smiled slightly and prepared his bow. Tran called it a side-bow; it was his own design, and would someday be known as a crossbow. Ready to fire, he looked over to see what was happening. 

One of the prisoners had been forced to his knees. The silver-haired man was about to take him. Tran grinned in wicked amusement. Immortal or mortal, this would be quite a shock. He lined up and fired. Even from this distance the expression of dumbfounded surprise was clear, before his target toppled over. Tran, too, almost toppled over with the effort not to laugh aloud. Three guards stayed with the prisoners, while the others fanned out to look for the source of the arrow. They did not seem concerned with the man who lay dead. Silently, Tran moved through the bushes to get a view from the opposite side. 

A short time later, the body wrenched back to life, the man tearing the arrow from his own chest and staggering to his feet. Fury radiated in his stance. The prisoners cowered away from him. Clearly they had not expected this man to stand up again. Just as clearly the other people had expected it. The men who had gone searching for the shooter returned, looking angry themselves. The Immortal shrugged and nodded. He turned toward his quaking prisoners again and took hold of one man's hips. Tran fired, grinning when his arrow buried itself deep in the silver-haired man's back, right next to the spine. This time the guards did not go looking for Tran, they were too busy removing the arrow from their infuriated god's back. 

The Immortal snatched one of the guard's daggers and stabbed it again and again into the nearest prisoner's back. In a moment his fury passed and he shook himself. A gesture to the guards and they positioned the next man for him. Tran shook his head. You are slow, he thought mockingly, and prepared to fire again. He fired an arrow into the man's ribs to get his attention, allowing enough time for realization. Then the next arrow to bury itself in the man's head through his ear. 

Knowing that the mortals would start a more potent search for him, Tran loped away, laughing quietly. This HAD been fun. A nasty Immortal, this one. He was just the kind of man who would torment a child and use him as a sexual plaything. Tran's amusement vanished within sheer vengeful hunger. The decision was a sure one. This Immortal would be Tran's next Quickening. He just had to get the horse and dogs, first. 

It was very late when he returned with his animals. They had to avoid several patrols as they came. Tran would not waste his strength in controlling mortals until he had to. Two guards stood outside the entrance of the Immortal's house. Tran stole up next to them and took control of them with a soft whisper. He killed the men and left them hidden in the grasses. He stepped forward and felt the sense of presence touch him. Moving quickly he shot across the house to where he heard the stirring and sudden motion of the Immortal sitting up. Centuries of experience held his voice calm as he said, "Be silent and still." His power sang in his blood. 

He waited. The sudden absence of sound told him he had control of the other, and he allowed time so that the man would know it, too. At last he ordered, "Come." He left the building, hearing the sound of the other man behind him. It was not necessary to turn his head or say anything more and he did not waste his strength in it. The man was already held by two commands. More and Tran would start to feel the strain. Hearing the sound of the other man's feet behind him, Tran smiled. There was no one alive who was close enough to hear and come to investigate. He led the way into the forest to meet the dogs and the horse. Tran leaped in a long-practiced move onto the horse's back. He set a pace that would run the man ragged as the command drew him to follow. His lips curled reflexively. Revenge was sweet, every time. 

He rode until the sun rose, not once looking back, for it was easy to hear his prisoner's harsh breathing over the smooth pattern of the horse's hoofbeats. They stopped in a clearing. Tran dismounted and turned to get a good look at his captive. The man was nearly dropping from exhaustion: damp with sweat, muscles gleaming, skin reddened and hot, hair and beard unkempt and dark gray because of the wetness. Tran let loose the thread of compulsion holding him. At once he doubled over, able to feel the overtaxed muscles that refused to hold him up. His labored breathing sounded wet. He groaned, then with an amazing strength uncurled and, snarling, launched himself at Tran. 

The small Immortal simply stepped aside, turning to see the man land flat on his stomach in the damp grass. Using the Voice again, Tran said calmly, "Stay." He stepped close and leaned down to run his hands along the bunched muscles of the shoulders. The man had not grown entirely soft within his wall of safety. He was quite muscular. Tran was impressed. "You are very strong. It is a pity your people are not." 

Though he could not move, the man had not lost his voice. Furiously, he said, "My people ARE strong! We rule!" 

"Not for long. You only dominate those who know as little as you do. There are other tribes who know much more. Left as they are, your people will provoke the others and be annihilated." 

The man's shoulders twitched and he growled angrily, "They will never be defeated as long as they have me!" 

That was a thought. Pity. "They have you no longer if I choose to keep you, or kill you." 

"Demon! You can't kill me! Nothing can kill me!" 

Tran wondered why he was wasting himself in chattering with this fool. He drew his short sword and lay it against the man's neck. This was his favorite part. It had become his tradition. See how much of the neck he could cut into before the Quickening began. But he was not a sadist. He opened the major vein first and watched the blood pour from the man's neck. He felt the body beneath him go limp. Once the man was dead, Tran began the slow slices that would gradually separate the head from the body. 

As he worked, he laughed softly. "Demon, indeed. Thinks nothing can kill him." Tran stopped, staring down at the dead man. Was it possible? He left his blade angled to hold the jugular open though no more blood came out, and sat down to stare thoughtfully at the body. You have no idea what you are, do you? A tribe that cut the heads off of its enemy dead, but not of their own, would surely think when one of their warriors came back to life that he was a god. Tran fingered the chain coiled around his beltloop, legacy of the Immortal who had taught him what slavery was, and what price he was willing to pay for survival. He could do with a slave himself. No more hiding out in the woods and plains if he had an obedient adult Immortal with him to stand between him and other adults. He would not have to wear himself out using his power. First, though, he would have to break this man to his control. He sliced a ring around the dead man's neck and pushed the chain in under the skin before he fastened it at the back. Then he sat back and waited. 

After a time, the torn skin closed and the man twitched and drew a harsh breath. The command to be still had been used up in the death, and Tran watched as the man shifted a hand to touch his own neck. Panicking, the man scrambled to his feet, clawing at his throat. He tore at his flesh and soon hooked the thin chain with his fingers. 

Tran, sitting behind him, ordered firmly, "Stop." The man froze. Tran could see fresh blood on the flesh of his neck. "Put your hand down." The man's hand fell limply to his side. A good sign, his prisoner was already reacting as if Tran were using his Voice with every order. Tran asked with studied arrogance, "How long have you been their god?" 

The question clearly confused the man. His body shifted from foot to foot as he sought to remember the answer. Shakily, he said ,"About two hundred and fifty years." 

"Were you born amongst them?" 

"Yes." 

That was what Tran had thought. "Have your people changed in all that time?" 

The man snorted. He said contemptuously, "Of course not. We're not weak and forgetful, like other tribes. I make sure we remember who we are." 

How amusing that the man thought of himself as a part of those mortals. Tran replied calmy, yet emphasized in his words that the Immortal was a separate entity. "You make sure they remain as they were. You are killing them." He paced around to stand in front of the giant and tilted his head up to look into wide, gray eyes. His features schooled to expressionlessness, he said, "You are no god. If I remove your head, you will never wake again. But then you could not be of use to me, could you? I offer you a choice: serve me. Change or die." 

The man's breath came in short, ragged gasps. His eyes shot away from Tran's cool gaze as he mustered his courage and rage. "My people will save me. They will hunt you down, you deformed demon!" Tran ignored the blustering and waited, though he was amused. He watched the terror turn slowly into cunning and planning. If the poor thing only knew how easy he was to read. Finally, the man spat out; "I'll serve you, curse you!" 

Tran almost lost control of his expression but managed not to laugh. It would do no good for the slave to think he could affect Tran. "You haven't the authority." He remembered the three prisoners this Immortal had been about to rape, and he realized there was something else he could do to weaken this strong, though inexperienced will. 

He mounted his horse and led his prisoner, this time allowing a slow pace. By the time night fell again, they had come upon an isolated ring of stones with a flat altar. He made the giant lie down, chest up to the night air, then brought out his sharp, obsidian blade. With infinite care, he began to remove the long, silvery hair. He used the knife with sure, steady strokes until all of the hair was gone. Then he slid it down towards the luxurious beard. His prisoner, who had been stoic until this point, began to tremble as realization hit. Tran moved slowly to allow each stroke of the blade to be felt and anticipated, building fear and anguish. After a few strokes the tall man began to make soft, piteous noises. Soon they increased in length, sound drawn out as long as the blade touched the skin. It was amusing how much importance some people placed on something so external. 

The man's face was wet with tears when Tran was done, his entire body trembling and sweating. The eyes that met Tran's were hopelessly lost. The small Immortal wondered if he had broken the man so easily, or was this only temporary shock? 

In the days that followed, the shock proved to be only temporary. Tran taught his slave how to care for the horse and dogs, how he preferred camp set up, how to build a smokeless fire. He taught what he wanted the slave to do when they interacted with adults. He would catch his slave watching him carefully, bright gray eyes full of cunning and hatching plots. It did not take long to discover that the man was unsophisticated. Not stupid, but his life as a god had never taught him craft or, for that matter, caution. Tran began a program to limber him up and get rid of that softness that would clue another Immortal in to the fact that he was virtually harmless. 

Tran was careful not to tire himself, so his orders using the Voice were careful and few. The gleam in the man's eyes kept him aware of the deadly risk he was taking. A slip up at the wrong time and he would seriously regret not having taken the man's head. 

They quickly settled into a routine. The slave took the second watch and prepared breakfast in the mornings. Or rather, he prepared breakfast when Tran ordered him to. He put in it what Tran told him to. He refused to do anything without being told to do it first. This was a kind of passive resistance. Tran reacted quickly each time, immobilizing Slave and beating him, or simply immobilizing him for a few hours. Slave hated that most of all and afterwards would be sullen for several hours and obedient for a few days. Tran kept him always naked and shaved. 

Being a god had not prepared Slave for submitting and he tried Tran's patience again and again. Tran found himself wishing the man were a dog or a horse. They were easy to train. Slave, however, had a quick mind and a formidable, if inexperienced, will. Sometimes Tran would think back the many centuries to how he had been tamed. It would be so easy to do that to Slave: to starve him into submission; to sell his body; to torture that tall, strong body. There were times when the urge to apply terrible punishments became almost overwhelming. He would beat Slave, his mind blank of anything but the need to strike, to hurt, until he saw bone through the torn flesh. Then he would leave the camp, ordering Slave to stay there, and run with the dogs for hours until he was ready to drop, trying to wear out the urge. When he recovered completely he would return to camp, strolling in as if he had just been off wandering and not burning himself out. Slave would glower and look away from him. 

He had expected to have the man fight him. He had expected to have to come up both with subtle and cruel punishments. He only required the man to obey him. He had not expected to have to fight to hide his own amusement. For the slave he had taken proved to have a streak of humor running deep. He did not, at first, recognize the humor. When he heard Slave talking to the animals in tones more personable than he used with them, he wondered if the man might be crazed. The incident with the squirrels, though, clued him in. 

It was mid-day, and Slave was watching a pair of squirrels chasing each other madly around a tree trunk. One had a large nut in its mouth; the other seemed intent to get it. Tran had been about to command his slave to make the midday meal when the man started speaking. His voice was high and chirrupping. "Hey, Browntail, give me that nut!" he demanded. Then he said in a slightly different voice, "Why no, Small Ears, you'll have to take it from me. But you haven't the nuts, ha ha!" The two squirrels paused in their racing to look at the source of this peculiar noise. Slave waved at them. "Go on about your business," he said cheerfully, and chuckled against his knee. 

Tran turned away from this scene feeling very strange. He made his way to the other side of the camp and sat down. He felt somewhat shaky and light-headed. It took him a moment to realize that he was amused and felt like laughing. He struggled against the warm feeling. It was difficult enough to control Slave, he would not come to LIKE him! 

One day, Slave was practicing the stretching exercises Tran had taught him. He seemed to love to reach for his limits and Tran allowed him to do so, finding a subtle pleasure in watching. All of that had to be hidden. At full extension, standing on his toes holding his hands together far above his head, Slave suddenly went into a spin. He whirled on his toes until at last he lost his footing and staggered about, his eyes rolling. Tran had to clamp down on himself to hold in his smile. Slave crumpled to the ground, then rolled over and stared at Tran with those impossibly brilliant eyes. Beneath the playfulness lay that bright core of defiance. "What now?" 

Tran regarded him coldly. "Now you do it with a blade." 

"A blade?!" Slave sat up and gaped at Tran. "I can't, I'll cut my own arm off." After a moment he asked, "Would it heal?" 

Tran shook his head. "As far as I know, it won't. Just don't be careless. The first few times you do it with the blade sheathed." He tossed the weapon in question to Slave, who caught it and bounded to his feet. One thing was certain, the man thrived on these physical exercises. I am a terrible master, thought Tran. I don't grind him down. He watched as Slave began the exercise again. It certainly was a pleasure to watch him. He had a native grace that his size belied. His coordination needed to improve, though. His fine motor skills, good by mortal standards, were not up to the average Immortal challenge, in Tran's opinion. 

An hour later, Slave, frustrated with the particularly difficult blade-exercise, sat down on the other side of the clearing they were in and refused to budge. He glared at his master, who regarded him with studied calm. "You will be killed in your first challenge," Tran told him coolly. 

"Well, at least it'll be a challenge, and not this..." Slave broke off, looking resolutely away from Tran. 

Tran crossed the clearing and jerked the man's head around to face him. He was well rested and at that point very familiar with his slave's capabilities. His power waved out with a light flicker. "I allow you to fight me." He stepped back, seeing the man's startlement and hiding his amusement. "Consider this a challenge. I will not take your head. This time." 

Slave licked his lips nervously, his eyes wide, and got to his feet with his blade. Tran had one of his own lightweight blades and regarded the man patiently. Again, Slave licked his lips, eyes shying away from Tran then back. "What happens if I win?" he asked. 

Tran shrugged. "You take my head." 

The man flinched slightly, disbelief clear in his stance. "You wouldn't let me," he muttered angrily. 

Tran shrugged again. Perhaps in the future, if Slave became dangerous enough, he would have to worry and lay a compulsion to protect himself in case the man won. In the present there was no fear of that happening. Calm, collected and patient, he waited. His hand felt the weight and firm strength of his short sword. He watched Slave prepare to charge, bunching his muscles, tilting forward on the balls of his feet, telegraphing his intentions with his body. 

Before the fight even began, Tran had mapped five ways it could go, given Slave's limits. When the man did begin his charge, Tran slipped out of his way and turned to thrust his sword into Slave's back. He contained a grin of pride when Slave turned his body ever so slightly so that the blade only skimmed his back. Tran called, "Very good. As long as your challenger's blade is not poisoned." 

"I've been poisoned before. It can't kill me!" 

Tran shook his head. "Someone who poisons you is not likely to give you time to recover to fight them again." 

Slave charged again, and again Tran easily avoided him. This time, Slave tried very hard not to get hit by the blades. He was angry, though. His entire body was tense. Naked as Tran kept him, it was easy to see how the muscles tightened and so reduced his agility. The man wasted his physical maturity. Tran felt the beginning of a building rage. Later, he promised it. Later he will do something to deserve punishment. 

Though Slave tried, he was unable to come close to Tran. His frustration mounted and he became reckless. Tran decided not to let him just wear himself into the ground. The next time the slave came too close, Tran ducked in under his arm and behind him, piercingly angry with the man. He leaped up onto Slave's back, caught hold of his chin and put his blade, held in his left hand, at the man's throat. Slave fell to his knees, his breath huffing and frame shaking with anger. But not so angry that he would not prefer to live. 

Tran held him, feeling the muscles of the man's back against his chest. Stupid ox, he thought. Your strength is nothing against me. Yet Slave's strength offended Tran at the heart of his being. Everything about Slave offended him, in fact. His thoughts cycled back to the first time he had seen the man. Standing there, about to violate three prisoners under the admiring eyes of his worshippers. 

His controls snapped. Rage boiled and he pierced Slave's skin with his blade. "The winner takes the loser's head. But what if the winner wants something else? Something better taken from a living body than a dead one?" he asked. The rage seemed to have vanished, to be replaced by intention. It was time to show the slave what might happen when your enemy had you helpless. 

He pressed in close and slid his right hand across Slave's chest. He scraped the outline of the man's muscles and felt them flinch under his fingers. "With your strength you could be very useful in the fields, or in construction. Oh, but your tribe didn't farm, having conquered others to supply them with food. I don't work you very hard," he purred menacingly and flicked a nipple hardened by the chill breezes. A tremor ran through the body he had trapped. There was the coppery scent of the blood from Slave's injured neck. It was always exciting to have an adult at his mercy. His body burned with a low hunger and he slid his hand down to touch Slave's manhood. A few deft strokes and the organ began to harden. How quickly it all came back. How to pleasure an adult. 

Slave tried to speak, but Tran silenced him with a brief murmur of Voice. Sure of his control, he let the blade fall and leaned in to feel the now-shaking body. Sheer hunger coursed through him and brought rage with it back to a fever pitch. He coiled his fingers tightly around Slave's manhood and growled softly, "You'd like to ram that into me, wouldn't you." A startled twitch through the prisoned form. "Your guards standing here, holding me on my knees while you demonstrate your strength on my body." He slid his left hand down between Slave's buttocks. He fondled and stroked the length of the man's cock with his right hand. He forced two fingers inside Slave's body. Not loose, but not too tight either. Slave was no virgin. It was a pity Tran was so small. 

His body burned and ached with hunger. Knowing what he wanted and how to do it had never changed the fact that his manhood was so small, it meant nothing to a body he wanted to shove it into. There was a way around that, though. A way Tran had used quite a few times. He grinned to himself and pulled his hand out of Slave's body to gather his dagger from its scabbard. With just a slice, the torn flesh would react to even the smallest touch as though it was a battering ram. 

As his hand closed on the hilt, he suddenly felt light-headed. Slave had done nothing to Tran that merited this punishment. He shied from the thought, responding to it angrily, but he would if he could! I want to hear him scream. This would do it, Tran knew. Slave's endurance through beatings had been astonishing. The man would die before crying out. But this was an entirely different kind of pain and it would do what being beaten to bone had not. The desire to rape faded. It was replaced by an undefinable shame. I will not punish where there is no transgression. I will not be ruled by my desires. Tran broke out in a sweat as he took control of himself. He released his grip on his blade-hilt, and on his slave. 

"Tend the camp," he ordered. He slipped backwards into the woods before breaking into a run. 

* * *

Laughter bubbled into Tran's awareness, interrupting the flow of memory. Shocked, he drew his sluggish thoughts together. Methos was in stitches. Tran, wounded by the laughter, shook the man. "What is it about that you could possibly find amusing?!" 

Methos sobered up ever so slightly. "He MUST have hated you for that!" 

"Of course he did. There was nothing he could do to stop me." 

The giggles started again and Tran swore violently at Methos. The oldest Immortal contained himself and snuggled in close. His presence permeated Tran's with warmth. The faint burble of amusement was not completely vanquished, though. "Oh, Tran," came the chuckling murmur, "you never knew what you'd done to him?" 

Confusion. Tran frowned. "I did nothing to him, except almost rape him with my dagger." A cloud of guilt. 

The laughter vanished. Methos said gently, "But he didn't know that. Tran, you had just defeated him in fair combat. According to his upbringing, you had every right to take your pleasure of his body. Instead, you aroused him and then left him." 

"I...?" Confused, Tran considered his memories. It made sense. In that light suddenly many things made sense. Feeling disoriented, he returned to his memories. 

* * *

Animals were so easy to teach to obey, but a man who had been worshipped for two centuries was not so acquiescent. Tran knew no other way to force obedience than to destroy the man's mind, yet he did not want to do that. He could find no options and his patience was running out. Though Tran's beatings often left Slave nearly dead, the man would come back with a gleam of fury in his eyes, to continue deliberately antagonizing Tran. Never punish greater than the crime, the older Immortal would repeat to himself. Don't punish for the luck that allowed him to mature before his first death. On the days when Slave seemed determined to defy as many orders as possible, Tran had to remind himself over and over again to show restraint. 

Winter set in dark, wet and cold. Their winter stores had not taken into account enough of the proper dietary needs, and Tran was fatigued and irritable. Slave was on edge, too, and as always not sensible enough to not provoke Tran. 

It started as mere posturing. Tran had generally ignored such things as beneath his notice, and so Slave had done them less and less as the months passed. Now, though, Tran's patience was worn thin. 

Slave sat at the opposite side of the fire and hissed at him, "At least they worshipped me! No one could ever worship you! You're small, ugly and weird looking! You'll always be small. No man or woman could desire you --" 

That was definitely it. Tran's patience snapped. He jerked up, away from the fire and stalked towards Slave. The man flinched but rallied, glaring defiantly at his small master. Tran stood in front of him and sneered. "What the hell would a sheltered babe like YOU know about what men and women desire?" 

Slave bared his teeth back. "They like to be held and touched and shown that you are strong and can protect them --" 

"Don't move." His voice rolled with power and Slave went still. Tran turned around and snatched up a thick branch the length of the man's arm. It was straight and strong. It would do. It was strong enough to go through Slave's body. He sharpened the end. When he was satisfied, he turned coldly on the man. "Hands and knees," he ordered, again with his power. Slave fell forward, eyes wide and terrified. Tran paused for a moment, the cold hard fury wavering slightly. It returned with a sudden memory of sneering laughter. A taunting voice buzzed in his head. He shuddered with the power of his fury, then set the pointed end down into the fire, and watched as it began to burn. He waited a short time, then pulled it out and blew on it. The flames died, but the wood was blackened and glowed red under Tran's breath. He turned and scraped it down his slave's ribs, leaving blistered skin behind that soon healed. Kneeling briefly, he jerked the man's chin around and glared into the frightened eyes. "I'll show you what men and woman desire of someone like me," he hissed. 

Blackness coiled at the edges of his vision. He braced his hands on the spear and touched the end of it against the tender skin of the buttocks, hearing and smelling the flesh burn, before angling it with the intent to thrust. A gasping whimper and Slave began pleading. "Please don't I'm sorry I won't fight don't do this to me please," he moaned. The sounds ran together and became a dull roar in Tran's ears. Their mere existence spurred his seemingly bottomless rage. He prepared to thrust, his head throbbing. Then his muscles locked and he could not move. Everything stopped. 

For the first time since he had stood, Tran fought himself and what he was doing. Look, look! shouted a voice in his head. Isn't this a bit extreme?! Holding a burning spear at the most fragile entry of a helpless body. A very similar voice replied that this was natural, was it not? A normal response to continued defiance. To hurt as deeply as possible. Slave huddled before him, head hidden under hands, entire body shaking. The man had stopped pleading and now waited in terror for the inevitable. Tran slowly turned his head to stare at the spear. Just one thing, anything could happen and he would plunge this into Slave's body. It would feel good, would it not? He knew exactly how it would feel for Slave. Pain unending and destroying his senses. The tear of his stomach as the spear was forced through and out the other side, then pulled back in. A few moments for the flesh to close before the spear was pushed through again. 

The black and red tip of the pike glowed dimly before his eyes. He concentrated, blocking out all else, even the faint moans from Slave. He unpeeled the fingers of his left hand from where he held the branch with it. He moved his hand and took the hot tip into his palm and clutched as tightly as he could. 

"One scream, one sob, and you'll learn that this pain is nothing, little pet," he muttered aloud as his flesh began to sear. 

Someone shouted and suddenly other hands were there, forcing his fingers apart and throwing the branch into the fire. Tran followed the movement of it, aware of nothing else. He felt nothing, not even pain from the hand he had just severely burned. Blackness suddenly closed around his vision. 

He woke to the sun in the morning. He blinked against it, his thoughts still numb. A shadow fell across his face. A hand peeled back the furs keeping him warm. "Can you move?" a familiar voice asked. Yet its tone was unusually deferential. The features swam into focus. It was Slave. 

Tran got to his feet quickly and swayed, suddenly light-headed. He closed his eyes and shook his head, which failed to clear things up. "What happened?" 

Slave asked hesitantly, "You don't remember?" 

Tran frowned and closed his eyes again to consider his disjointed memories. A chill ran through him as they connected together into a coherent tale. He opened his eyes and stared down at Slave, who knelt watching him with wide, nervous eyes. And well he might, Tran thought numbly. 

Slave drew a wavering breath and asked, again in that shaky, deferential tone, "Did someone do that to you?" 

The cool morning breezes were picking up. Tran was too astounded to even shiver. Where, he wondered, did Slave get up the... the courage to ask such a question? Perhaps the same place he had found the realization that the order to be on his hands and knees countermanded the order not to move, and that he could. Tran backed up, pulling his head high. Body needs made themselves known and he moved off to relieve himself. When he returned, he found the man had brought out breakfast and brewed a batch of Tran's favorite herb-concoction. Tran found himself uneasy with this sudden obedience. If one thing had been constant ever since he had taken the man, it was that Slave would do nothing without being told to or punished, first. 

It held, to his surprise. The next several days brought with them both confusion and relief. All traces of defiance seemed to have vanished from Slave. And yet... that was what was so confusing. When Tran had, long ago, stopped fighting the master who had him, it had been because he had shattered. Slave did not seem shattered at all, just calm and comfortable. Tran shook himself again and again. He kept expecting to come up against the wall of Slave's will and yet it was no longer there. Furthermore, he found himself watching the man, constantly distracted from his thoughts. 

He's cold, Tran thought one afternoon. Oh, he had known Slave was cold in this weather. Now, though, it mattered. It was winter, and Slave had nothing to wear. Immortal he was, but this qualified as an undeserved punishment. Tran found himself going through the stores of furs they kept for trading to find some that could be made into clothing for the big man. He collected them to bring to Slave and then did not know what to do. He should throw them at the man with a sneer of contempt. Yet he found no urge to do so. He came to where Slave was diligently practicing some of the moves Tran had taught him. As soon as Presence made itself felt, Slave turned towards Tran and dropped to his knees. 

Tran steadied himself, not letting his surprise show on his face. Though he had insisted that Slave do this, keep low and be small, it was astonishing to see the man do it with a will. He could see the bright eyes through the sheltering eyelashes, peering at him. With a toss of his head, Tran held the furs out. "Make yourself something to wear," he ordered, glad that at least his voice was steady. 

Slave took the furs, then reached out a hand to rest his fingertips lightly on Tran's inner thigh. "Yes, Master," he said quietly, the silver eyes questioning while he asked nothing. 

Tran whirled away, the flesh on fire beneath his clothing where Slave had touched him. The dogs joined him as he broke into a run away from the camp. He had to cool the racing of his blood. His thoughts were turning again to the heated pleasure of rape. He HAS to deserve it FIRST, he told himself sternly. He ran until his legs gave out, the dogs loping next to him, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind. When he finally sat down, they came to him and pushed their noses into his lap, their tails wagging. He smiled and fondled their ears, scratching the soft flesh under their chins until they rolled over, begging him to rub their tummies. He chuckled, his heart easing under the simple creatures' adoration. 

"I wish I knew what he was thinking," he told the animals. "I wish I knew why." 

Every incident of contact over the month that followed burned itself into Tran. There was the innocent stroke of fingers when he handed something to the man, the light touch whenever Slave saw a rent in Tran's clothing and brushed the skin through it before asking if he wanted it repaired. 

Tran was aware that he was losing his battle with himself. One of these days he was going to immobilize the man and rape him. He had every right to do so, did he not? Yes, he did. For what had happened to him, for what Slave had done as leader of a mortal tribe, indeed simply because the man WAS his slave and slaves were meant to be used! The only thing that stopped Tran was that he knew no other way to satisfy his urges than to cause Slave terrible pain. 

One morning, Tran stood rubbing at his aching shoulders. They always hurt in the morning. Slave looked up from where he knelt by their breakfast. Tran caught a bright flash in the silvery eyes and tensed. The flash was gone, the eyes again filled with that unknown question. Tran raised his eyebrows as Slave crawled to kneel in front of him. 

"I could do that, Master," the man said deferentially. 

Tran looked down at him. "Do what?" he asked indifferently. 

"Soothe the pain, Master." 

It was in Tran's mind to sneer and tell his slave to tend the camp. Then a sudden thrill of excitement ran through him. Of course. Slave had been biding his time, waiting for Tran to relax. He would try something, thinking his master's guard was down. Then Tran would have reason to punish him. Tran's groin tightened with heat. Oh, thank you, he thought. Aloud he said, "We shall see." 

The contact of Slave's huge hands against the bare skin of Tran's shoulders seemed to go through the smaller man's body down to his erection, too small to be seen under his loincloth and leggings. Then the hands worked, with firm yet gentle strokes, at the tight muscles beneath them. Pressure and its sudden release took away pain and sent small sparks of pleasure along Tran's skin. Oh, it felt good. Despite himself, Tran found he was truly relaxing. 

After some time passed, the strong fingers were working at his lower back. Tran cleared his throat. "How do you know what to do?" 

The fingers did not cease their movements. He felt Slave's breath on his shoulders, sending a pleasurable shiver across his skin. "I used to do this for my Master. A long, long time ago." 

Surprised, Tran turned his head. Slave's hand moved up to stroke his neck. "You were a slave before?" 

Slave shook his head. "No, I was his apprentice. He was the Wise Man. When they found me, he asked to raise me because he thought I was special." 

Tran turned his head forward again. The hand slid back down to work the muscles across his hips. He stifled a sigh. It was a pity this would be over soon. It felt so good. 

"When I was... I think about eight years old, maybe younger," Slave began again, his voice very quiet, "he taught me to satisfy him." 

Tran froze. Slave's hands moved up to his shoulders again and worked at the suddenly tight muscles. With a great effort, Tran forced himself to relax. "Did he hurt you?" He tried to sound nonchalant. 

"At first. I didn't like it at all and he had to force me. After a while it stopped hurting. When I was... maybe twelve... it started to even feel good. But a year later I was too big and he didn't want me anymore." 

Tran bit his lips. Slave's voice was very quiet. The man who had been the master obviously preferred children. Yet Tran thought he detected a note of abandonment in Slave's tone. The hands on his shoulders kept at their task as if they had nothing to do with the words their mouth uttered. The silence stretched. 

Soft as Slave's voice was, when he spoke again it seemed loud. "How old are you?" 

Tran pulled himself to his feet away from the strong hands. "A thousand," he lied coolly. What did it matter? The only person who could refute it was dead. Tran did not look back at Slave, he simply broke into a run away from the camp, his two dogs bounding to his side. 

The urge to rape Slave seemed gone. Even the fact that the man had made it to maturity no longer roused the fury it had before. Roused. He was still aroused, still wanting to take Slave's body under his. He stopped running and leaned heavily against a tree. Tran thought, He won't feel it. He won't enjoy it. But then again it won't be a punishment. "I am his MASTER!" Tran shouted in protest at the sky. "I can do what I want with him!" One of the dogs pushed its nose under his hand, whining. He sighed and petted both animals. But I don't want to hurt him. 

  
**Part 2: Enjoying the Moment for Once**

* * *

It was days before Tran allowed himself to get close to Slave again, days through which he could do nothing but watch the man move, and listen to his voice, and contain laughter when Slave did or said something amusing. It was when he found the man trying to shave himself that Tran touched him. He took the knife from Slave's hand and carefully moved it over the planes of the face, gripping the man's chin in his free hand. Slave leaned into the touch, looking questioningly up at him. Tran shook his head even as he scraped the last of the beard away. The skin under his fingers was so warm. He wanted to bury himself in Slave's body and feel that warmth surround his own. Caught by his own hunger, he gripped the back of the man's neck and studied the questioning eyes. What are you asking me? It was not he who spoke, though. 

"Master? What do you want me to do?" Slave asked shyly. 

Tran shook his head, trying to dislodge his frozen thoughts. Do I have to hurt him? Do I? he asked himself in a small voice. His bewilderment provided no answer. At this moment he was not aroused, but it would come and he needed to be able to do something about it. It took a moment to unlock his throat enough to speak. "I want you to satisfy me." 

It was the best he could do. Put the onus on Slave and see what the man did with it. The bright eyes went wide for a moment. Slave raised his hands. They were trembling. He opened his master's loin wrap. His fingers shyly touched the small organ. Tran thought Slave looked slightly puzzled. Then the man leaned forward and took the organ in his mouth. 

Tran gritted his teeth and locked his muscles against his sudden panic. He's going to bite me! flashed through his thoughts. No, not biting. Slave was being ever so gentle, mouth hot and wet. The thick brush of a tongue made Tran's knees shake. His pulse beat and his organ throbbed, quickly hardening. Dizzy, his senses were whirling. He felt Slave's hands travel up his ribs under his clothing until the rough thumbs swept across his nipples. He could not breathe. His fingers threaded through the man's hair and clung desperately. There was a sharp upsurge of feeling in his body. The orgasm burst throughout him with a sensation of surprise, for it did not carry with it the usual exultation in hatred. It took the strength from his legs and he began to fall, but Slave eased him down. Where was the anger that would have held him up in the past? Without it he had no control. He felt darkness close around him for a moment before he heaved it off. Survival took precedence. Yet the eyes staring down at him held concern, no threat or cunning malice. Just concern and... and hope? 

"Are you all right?" came the gentle question. 

Tran found he had strength. The illusion of weakness came from the way his body trembled, from the slowly easing pulse in his groin. He lifted his hand and touched Slave's face, unwilling to speak. 

Tran did not desire sex often. His body, once satisfied, remained quiescent for long periods of time. Although, with Slave right there and available to him, those periods shortened to several days rather than months or years. The fantasies of raping the man did not return. Having him willing eased the pressure on Tran immensely. This bothered him sometimes. The thought of other adults still brought rape fantasies. Slave, however, was not the focus of them. Tran was relieved to know that having a willing pleasure slave had not killed his hatred of adults. He had no doubt that he would need that hatred in the future. 

That the relationship was one-sided only occasionally niggled at the back of Tran's thoughts. Once in a while, when a faint surge of guilt was strong enough for him to notice, he watched Slave surreptitiously. There were no signs of arousal beyond the normal pattern of erotic dreams or a rare stirring of the huge cock. It was not Tran's experience that a man could give pleasure without wanting to take it, even a slave, so he wondered what thoughts went through Slave's mind. 

One early evening, they dozed together before Slave would go and take the night watch. Tran woke fully as the big man's fingers brushed his chin. Slave's eyes were closed, the thick brow furrowed. Tran eyed him suspiciously but Slave only spoke, his voice quiet. "Everyone I cared about either sickened or grew old and died. I stopped caring about anyone." 

Tran lifted his head, startled by the words. He mulled them over in his mind. He had never been close to mortals. Would it have been like that for him if he had not wandered bereft after Chichinquane's death, and been taken by Domica? "I won't sicken or age," he said calmly. 

The furled brow smoothed, a faint smile touched Slave's lips. "Good." 

Tran allowed himself to be satisfied with the simple touches Slave knew. The things he himself had been trained to were largely the products of an over-sexed city culture. Or were they a product of Domica's jaded imagination? It did not matter. Oh, Slave still served him. Tran did not give orders and the man did not defy anything he knew his master wanted. Tran could grow content if it were not for the niggling guilt he felt about his pet. 

The winter passed quickly for them. Spring came and some days the weather was quite warm. One afternoon, Tran was basking on an outcrop high over a pool they had found. A splash below alerted him, and he glanced over the edge. Slave was swimming, just out of range for them to sense each other. He watched the smooth glide of the man's body through the water for some time, until Slave clambered out onto a great rock to relax in the sun. He stretched out. Idly he slipped a hand down to lightly rub his manhood. Tran watched with interest as the man began playing with himself. The light shone on Slave's body as he arched into his moving hand, mouth open. Tran licked his dry lips. This seemed like an ideal time to give back some of what he had taken. With a sense of stalking amusement and anticipation, he dove into the pool. 

The cold water took the edge off of his excitement even as Slave's Presence steadied out into the normal blur. Tran broke the surface of the water, grinning, tossing his head. Slave had rolled over and was halfway in the water, his skin flushed, chest pressed against the boulder, eyes wide with surprise. Tran struck out and joined him there, throwing an arm over his shoulders. Moving swiftly, he caught Slave's manhood in his left hand, eliciting a sharp, frightened sound. 

Slave's shoulders were trembling. The water had cooled his ardor, but he was still semi-hard. Tran moved his hand, fingers stroking along the head of the member, and it began to harden. 

Slave gasped. He whispered tremulously, "You're not angry at me?" 

Tran ignored the question. Of course his sudden arrival had frightened Slave. The man probably thought Tran would punish him. Instead of speaking, Tran nibbled on the skin of Slave's throat. He had liked that, before Domica. He kneaded with both hands and felt Slave twist slightly, the muscles under his arms bunching. Tran shut out all else, concentrating solely on the body he held until Slave was gasping for air, body twisting though he seemed to be clinging to the rock for dear life. And then a cry from Slave's lips as slick heat shot between Tran's fingers. Tran continued to hold him even as he lost, for a moment, his grip on the side of the boulder and they almost slid under the water. 

A weak whisper, "Master..." 

"My name is Tran." He felt very pleased, almost impossibly so, with his actions. But there was something he needed to know. "What is your name?" 

The man turned his head to look at Tran, eyes shy and still somewhat dazed. "They called me Grey." 

Tran smiled at him and stroked wet strands of hair off of his forehead. "It suits you." 

When Tran wanted to satisfy Grey, he would either take his slave to a pool of water or restrain him. He had to do it, because he could not seem to stop fearing that a random movement from those huge hands might hurt him. In water, Grey had to cling to a rock or something, and the water gave his body the illusion of being light, allowing Tran to hold him. Restraining him, however.... 

The first time Tran did this he had approached unspeaking, adopting a dark look, and beckoned Grey to a thick tree. He gestured for the man to lean his back against the tree and then used a cord to bind Grey's wrists to each other. He ignored the wide, frightened eyes and ran his hands firmly over his slave's muscles. Pleased with how firm the man's body had become under his training, Tran began seducing in earnest. He used his mouth only on the man's nipples, his hands on the trembling thighs and moving to stroke the great manhood. A suckle, a nip, a wet tongue to match the hands' movements and Grey's manhood swelled. "Master," Grey called him at that time, head thrown back, mouth open and gasping. 

It got so Tran only had to look at his pet with a dark gaze of hunger to start the man trembling and flushing. For Tran knew much more about the art of making love than Grey did. He discouraged Grey from attempting the same touches Tran knew. He did not want to lose control of the situation, ever. 

And only on rare occasions, for barest moments, would he even admit to himself how much the man was coming to mean to him. 

Existence became almost idyllic for Tran. Grey was no longer entirely his slave and though not his equal, certainly a pleasurable lover. Perhaps Tran would have called the man his friend if he had known what that meant. As it was, Tran simply classified Grey as something that belonged to him and somehow had greater emotional importance than the dogs and the horse. Animals were simple creatures and would love their master even if he was cruel. The man was so much more complex. Tran liked to watch him, usually from high in a tree so that they could not sense each other. Grey would groom the horse, clean their campsite and wrestle with the dogs with an air of contentment. 

"I never saw anything like this before," Grey told Tran. He held up the bronze mirror and stared into it curiously. "Do I REALLY look like this?" 

Tran laughed. "Yes, you do." He still kept his slave's face shaved, preferring the faint impression of vulnerability the bare face gave. With the bitter anger gone from the cloud-colored eyes, the frosty hair short and tousled, cheeks flushed from exertion, the man drew Tran like a moth to a flame. He tapped the small of Grey's back and the tall man folded in graceful obedience onto his knees. He laid his fingers on the back of Grey's neck. Pressing firmly, he could feel the rise of the flesh covering the chain. Smug pleasure rolled through him. The mark of my ownership, he thought happily. Anything else would heal, but the chain would remain through fire or drowning or any other death but the final one. He leaned over Grey's shoulder so he could see both of their faces in the mirror. "Don't we make an odd pair." 

Grey grinned and shook his head, brushing his cheek against Tran's. "You're beautiful." 

"Flattering child," Tran growled in fake annoyance, and his tall companion laughed. "I told you there was more in this world than your tribe." 

"You were right." Grey was still for a moment, waiting. 

Tran smiled to himself and stepped back. Later, he thought amusedly. Later he would want to be pleasured, and probably return the pleasure until his slave collapsed. 

He watched as Grey stood up and began packing the goods they had traded for at a settlement. The mirror Tran had asked for on a whim, knowing his slave had never seen one. The children in the settlement had warned him of a band of marauders and they would have to be on their guard. Though the idea of hunting down those marauders had a certain appeal. Tran's bloodlust curled. That would be good. The rush of battle, the freedom of knowing that the people he killed did not deserve to live. Dead men would tell no tales of injuries that healed almost as swiftly as they were inflicted. The spill of hot blood across his hands -- he licked his lips. 

"Tran? Master?" Grey's voice intruded through the fantasy. 

Tran shook himself and focused on the man, who had come and knelt in front of him again. He met the puzzled expression and cupped Grey's chin in his hands. "We'll need to find an easily defendable place to camp." 

The horse they had traded for looked small under Grey. Tran's eyes were drawn to him again. Though he did appreciate the sight of the tall man down on his knees, Tran no longer felt the exhilaration from it that he had in the past before. The reason was plain: Grey was not his enemy. I don't want him on his knees anymore, Tran realized. He loved to see the bright confidence of the man. He loved the light in the silvery eyes. He's not my enemy. Chichinquane did not use me as a servant. I won't use him as such. "Grey," he called. 

The tall man directed his horse, somewhat uncertainly as he was new to riding, over to walk beside Tran's. "Yes, Tran?" 

"Don't kneel to me anymore. And don't call me master." 

Grey seemed to stop breathing, staring at Tran in wide-eyed surprise. "You... I'm not your slave anymore?" 

Tran read the expression in Grey's eyes. It mingled joy and consternation. Grey had been a master for most of his life, and knew how slaves were supposed to act. He knew how to curry favor with a master. But to be neither master nor slave...? "You are my student and my lover," Tran told him calmly, reading the emotions that swept through those too-clear eyes. Relief that this change did not mean abandonment. Trust. Damn, the man trusted him. That was surely what had been Tran's undoing. Nevertheless, Tran reached out and stroked the man's neck over the ridge. Grey leaned into the touch, closing his eyes. As his teacher, Tran would still be the authority in his life. There was nothing to fear. 

Tran suspected the marauders watched the settlement. As a pair travelling without guards, he was sure they would seem like easy prey. Excited as he was at the prospect of battle, he made certain their camp looked like an easy target. On the third night, the marauders attacked. 

Grey was on first watch, so Tran was alone with the dogs. The sudden absence of normal night animals' noises woke him. He slipped from his bedding and made his way with the dogs past the coming mortals. As silent as they were, he was far better. He almost walked straight into Grey, who was approaching the camp himself, wild-eyed and excited. 

Grey's relief at seeing Tran was palpable. He whispered, "I thought to warn you. I was about to distract them." 

Tran nodded, stroking Grey's neck reassuringly. "I've been expecting them. Let's see what you've learned from me, shall we? You choose one to live." One to question, for Tran wanted very much to know where their camp was. The children had indicated these marauders had come into the area almost a year before. He was very curious about what booty they must have gathered. 

He and Grey split up. Their prey came whooping to the campfire, attacking the piled bedding. There were eight of them. They milled about in confusion when they found no one to kill. Tran slipped up to the gathered group and slid his blade into the heart of a man on the periphery. He moved back into the darkness before the body even began to fall. 

The panic that radiated from the remaining men was comical. There was the sound of a harsh impact. Another man on the periphery jerked, then he began to stagger. Left a few feet, then right he swayed drunkenly before falling. As if by magic, Grey seemed to appear out of the darkness where the man had stood. His hair lit yellow by the firelight, he grinned evilly before leaping and flipping backwards to vanish into the darkness like a ghost. Tran almost whooped with laughter as the living men shrieked. 

They panicked and turned as a group to run. Before they got more than a few steps, the dogs blocked their way. Tran came in and took out the man at the back of the group, again slipping back into the darkness before the body fell. 

An eerie laugh sounded out of the night, raising the hairs on the back of Tran's neck before he recognized the voice. Grey, bless him. The dogs backed away, disappearing into the night as the men stumbled over the dead man at their backs and tried to run the other way. Grey suddenly appeared in front of the men and stabbed two. He was a silver and golden blur in the firelight. 

The three men broke and ran in different directions. "Capture!" Tran called. Grey shouted an acknowledgement. "Kill," Tran told the dogs, pointing after one fleeing man. The third he pursued himself. The panic-stricken man did not get far. Tran found him fouled by a tree root, his leg twisted, and finished him off. 

He turned back towards the camp, fully satisfied and burning. He could almost feel Grey's hands and mouth, could hear his achingly sweet moans when Tran took him. Mine, he thought. Mine to pleasure and to take. 

When he returned to the camp, the sight that greeted him surprised him. The man Grey had pursued was bowing frantically, on his knees at the taller man's feet. His babble cohered as Tran listened. 

"Lord God! Come back to us, please God! We know we failed to protect You and so You turned Your face from us! Our slaves turned on us; our enemies attacked us. Forgive me, God! I fled the enemy. We all did! You have punished the others as we all deserve for failing you! Please, God! Destroy me if You must, but come back to our people! We are scattered and powerless without You!" 

Well. Tran held his breath and watched Grey, who looked distraught and apparently had not noticed his return. The man, finished with his prayer, bowed his head to the ground, sobbing. Grey backed away from him. Raising his blade as if to strike, he shuddered and lowered it. He stalked forward, his face twisted with pain. 

"Look at me!" he shouted at the man at his feet. "LOOK AT ME!" The man lifted his face. Grey pointed at himself. "I have no power. I am not what you thought I was! I can't help you. I can't help anyone." 

Tran let his breath out slowly and watched. The stranger raised his trembling hands to take Grey's and said, "I know. We let an enemy god take You. But beards grow back, and You cannot die! I'll take You back to our people! We'll stand vigilant and wipe our enemies from this land!" his voice twisted into a snarl, his face shone with faith. 

Grey closed his eyes and pulled away. "This is not some campfire tale," he said angrily. He stood for a moment, facing away from the man who begged him to return. He stared into the woods surrounding the camp, then looked up towards the sky. He shook his head and turned around. "I'm free. I'm not going back there. You think you need me, but I don't need your -- your dying, your stupidity." 

The man on the ground stared at Grey stupidly. "Please, God, we need You." 

Tran walked into the firelight. The man cringed back in surprise. Grey looked startled for an instant, but quickly flashed him a welcoming smile. Tran returned the smile and looked at the frightened stranger. He used the Voice, but only slightly. "Perhaps if you showed him your camp, he would see how much you need him." 

The man's eyes fogged over. He stared in confusion at Tran. "Our camp is... God will turn his back on us." 

"He already has," Tran pointed out mildly. Then the Voice again, this time stronger. "Show him your camp." 

"Yes. Yes. He'll pity us. He turned from us in anger. He'll come back!" The man staggered to his feet and started off into the forest. A soft murmur from Tran and he stopped, sinking to the ground and dozing off. 

Grey stared at him, puzzled. He turned to Tran. "Why do you want to see their camp?" 

"They have been here for almost a year. I am curious to see what they've stolen in all that time." 

Grey was clearly discomfited. "Things fell apart quickly, I guess. Without me there...." 

Tran chuckled. "You're lucky. I wonder what the winners would have done to break your power once they'd broken your people." He sent Grey to get his horse and chew on his words. 

Grey's horse was not well trained, so they only took Tran's. They rode, following behind the other man. Grey sat behind Tran and they talked. "Do you know him?" 

Grey shook his head against Tran's hair. "He might have been one of my guards. It's been years since I let myself care enough to know who any of them were. I guess I know why they never came after me." 

Tran chuckled and reached his hand around to stroke the back of Grey's neck. "I will not let anyone take you from me." He was warmed when Grey snuggled against his back. 

Grey's breath teased his ear. "This is where I belong," came the whisper. The promise in that voice pleased him no end. It woke a feeling of childish contentment he wallowed in. And he's only been my lover for three months.... It had been so long since he had a lover. Most of his life, in fact. The last lover had been before he was taken by Domica. Only lately had he realized how alone he had been. No more, he thought and wrapped his fingers around Grey's. 

The bandits' camp was not so far. The moon was well into the sky when they arrived. The camp was hidden in a wide grotto. Their fire was low, with hot, glowing embers. There were a couple of logs half in the coals. Three men were still at the camp, hunched over piles of goods. The man who had led Grey and Tran ran forward, his excitement overwhelming him. 

"I found Him! I found Him!" The other three men gathered around him. They nervously stared towards the horse and its riders. 

Tran read their fear and wondered at it. He dismounted and looked around. The camp was a poor one. Evidently, without their god, these men had deteriorated. He smiled to himself. He could understand that happening, even though they really knew little about Grey. In all the time, all their lives they had him with them, they did not know the real man. And why should they? 

Something was odd about the camp, though. Uneasy, he scanned it again. There was nothing he could put his finger on. The camp was the size to support eleven men. Its unkemptness was consistent. What was it? What? He breathed in. Cooked meat but not deer. Something familiar about the smell.... He found himself walking towards the fire. 

Grey had also dismounted. The men were approaching him slowly, cringing even as they moved. Grey stood at ease, confident and strong. Tran turned his attention back to the fire. He did not like it and he could not think why. Something so off. His gaze fell again on the two logs half in the fire. No, they were not logs. 

Pain in his arms. He was clutching himself, his teeth gritted so tight his jaw hurt. His whole body hurt as his muscles spasmed. 

They were bodies: two girls, probably young. Naked, their unburnt legs splayed open to give easy access for the men who had killed them. He saw the way their blackened torsos arched, their arms curled against their chests. Burned alive but not alive any more. He was glad of that. Then he was not glad but empty and cold. He turned slowly, the paralysis gone. 

Four men left. Four monsters, valid prey. Tran ignored the one that belonged to him. 

* * *

"Take the watch," Tran ordered. He kept his head turned, kept Grey's face a white blur in the moonlight. He had to keep from looking at the man, for the rage burning in him wanted a target. The old hatred for all adults warred with his affection for this one. He could not be near him, for the urge to kill had not been exhausted on the four men. 

"But Tran --" 

"TAKE THE WATCH, SLAVE!" he shouted. Pain, oh pain! He held on to his control as tightly as he could, his hands curled into fists. 

"Yes, Master," came a whispered reply. 

Monsters. They're all monsters, he thought. He shivered, smelling blood in the air. It was on his hands, the blood of the men he had killed tonight. Wildness danced through him. Revenge on the monsters, sweet as ever. Yet it was not enough. It was never enough and tonight it had not even calmed him. His emotions were still high; he could feel his control slipping. He lifted his head and looked around. Slave -- Grey -- was neither in sight nor could Tran sense him. Good. Even walking was a task of monumental effort. His legs ached, everything ached. He moved to his bedding and crawled in. He had to hold on. If he gave in to this black rage, he might come out of it who-knew-where. 

He turned away from the fire and closed his eyes. The blackness swept in and he tried to drown himself in it. 

His shoulders hurt so much. Domica held him down and as soon as the healing finished, broke his bones again. He clung to the blackness in his mind and tried to forget the feeling of his bones being crushed. There was no escape. He was flipped over and his limbs rearranged, then his body was violated. He was too exhausted to struggle. The continuing grind of his broken shoulders somehow shattered the link between his head and his body, so that he could not react. Vaguely he tried to find that link. If he did not struggle, Domica would only become more vicious. Noise the man could not abide, but he liked the fight. 

Suddenly Domica pushed his head down, down towards the fire. He only smelled his flesh burning for a moment before the flames ate his face and he could not see. Pain became the entirety of his awareness. He found the connection at last and fought wildly, but with his shoulders broken he could not use his arms. He could still hear, and the hissing, evil sound of Domica's laughter caught his ear over the sizzling and popping of his flesh. 

Domica finished and dropped his body next to the fire. He could only twitch as the healing rebuilt his skin and eyes. There beside him, as always, the dagger his master taunted him with. He knew better than to try for it. He stared at it and kept the longing buried. There was no way. Domica was three times his size and would like an excuse to torture him. Even if one had to be invented. 

His teacher, Chichinquane. He always thought of her at times like this. It was only the memory of her which kept him sane. She had taken in a child, Immortal and so the only survivor of his slaughtered village. She had taught him, made certain he knew what he was, tried to teach him the magic of Voice and Mind. He wished now that he had worked harder, found the mechanism that would let him control another person. He had no physical strength and only such a magic would free him. He knew better than to wait for, or try to ask, someone to rescue him. All other adults were either too weak or as bad as Domica. 

Oh my teacher, how I wish I had listened more to you in your teaching than ignored you because of your madness. But she had gone from him to face the same Immortal who had destroyed his mortal life. The same one who had been her own teacher in her youth. Methos. And she had never returned. 

He felt a surge of anger at Methos, who had taken from him first the loving parents of his childhood, and then Chichinquane who, though mad, had cared for him. Numbness settled in him. 

Domica's hands came down on him again. The man reeked of fermented -- whatever that drink was -- and was laughing. Tran was horrified as Domica swung him once again towards the fire. He must have enjoyed the last time very much to be interested in doing it again so soon. Which meant that Tran could anticipate this happening often. He tried not to struggle -- it was the struggle that excited Domica -- but the burning was too terrible and he could not stop himself. 

Somewhere amidst the pain, a moment of clarity. Chichinquane's voice, her Presence in her rare moments of sanity like a soothing balm. "It gets easier after the first time. You have the basics, now you must do." But he could not do. He could not find and cross whatever bridge he needed to cross to use the talents she assured him he had. 

There. In the clarity beyond the pain what was that? He pushed forward, fighting, reaching out and yanking himself to it and across. The terrible tearing of his mental barriers was not nearly as painful as burning in the fire. There beside him a Presence. It was small in this place. He looked and saw for an instant the beauty of its fluid structure. Then he began to systematically destroy it. 

He tore and smashed the traceries around him, crushed and slashed at the harder structures until they lost all coherence and turned to dust around him. There were images he did not even look at as he ripped them to pieces. And when there was nothing solid to touch, to tear; when there was nothing but blackness all around and no substance to stand on without sinking through it, he knew he had won. Then he turned and stepped back across the bridge. 

He rolled out of the fire, aware of the smell of his burnt flesh. He panted air into seared lungs, waiting for his eyes to regenerate. When he could see he grabbed the dagger and turned to Domica, who lay quivering on the ground, eyes staring blindly, naked limbs contorted. 

As he had done to the mind, so he did to the body until blood was everywhere. He laughed at the sight of the bones and the pulsing of organs sheltered beneath them, trying to pump blood into broken links. Tiny flickers of light danced across the body, the healing process started almost as soon as the injuries had been inflicted, but he had learned from Domica how to keep ahead of the healing. And now he would take his first head. 

Laughing, he knelt to slice the flesh of the man's neck with the now dull edge of the blade. 

A glint of something metal, slicked with blood, but visible in the firelight. Tran brushed the blood aside and his fingers closed on a metal chain. Domica wore a chain? Like the one in Tran's neck? But... he could not feel the one in his neck. He rubbed at his throat but the ridge was not there. Something made a sound. A whine. He looked up to see two huge black dogs cowering nearby. What? Where did they come from? 

Strange dogs and... this place was... a desert but there were trees all around and the air was damp. But the mind he had torn and shattered was familiar, as was the body he had mutilated. Horror knifed through him as he realized where he was and what he had done. "Grey." 

  
**Part 3: Grieving it all one at a time**

  
They woke simultaneously, sitting up quickly with their hearts pounding. Mariah stared around her at the unfamiliar flat and then remembered where they were. Grey shook his head to clear it before doing the same. "Earthquake?"

It was like that instant before an earthquake or an impending Quickening, that feeling of stillness, of the world inhaling and holding its breath before shaking itself. Then, as suddenly as it had come it was gone. Their bodies relaxed at the relief of some unknown pressure. Mariah looked about, half-expecting a spirit to appear. The sensation reminded her of the few times when she had seen distraught ghosts. "Does Paris have earth --" she started to ask, but another, more awful question came to mind. Was it like an impending Quickening, or like the loss of a friend? 

They stared at each other in silent anguish. They twined their fingers together and lay back down on Methos' bed, closing their eyes. Shifting their minds into preparatory stillness, they dropped their barriers. Long familiar with each other, they sifted together until their cores touched, then reached out, seeking to locate that third beloved Presence. 

Relief bounded between them when they found it in close proximity with another Presence. Tran was not dead. That was good enough. They withdrew together, falling back into their bodies. 

They opened their eyes without completely dissolving the link. Peace and warm affection flowed between them. Grey started, "This is so --" and Mariah also started, "It's just like --" they both stopped speaking, chuckling. 

Grey pushed his head closer to Mariah. "There should be stars above us," he said softly. 

She smiled. "And a soft desert breeze." 

"And I will braid delicate jeweled chains into your hair." He lifted a hand to gather some of her hair and slide it over her fingers. "I always missed that," he admitted sheepishly. 

"Will you braid my hair?" she asked, snuggling closer. "I don't need jewels." 

"I would love to." He brushed at her hair and drew it to his face to inhale its fragrance. "That would require getting up," he pointed out. 

"Later, then." She closed her eyes and let herself enjoy his appreciative touch. They had not been this close and alone with each other in over a thousand years. Grey was deeper than he had been, but the rest remained as she remembered. He was sensual, enjoying touching her and having her companionship, but without a thread of sexual desire. She opened her eyes as a thought occurred to her. "Grey, did your people consider making love a holy act?" 

He blinked at her in surprise. "Um, no. It was more a... well, just like most cultures, the powerful took the weak even if it was love. Why do you ask?" 

She liked how he did not withdraw from the question, however much it surprised him. Ever the brave one, he was. "When we were together, though we never had intercourse, you taught me every pleasure my body could feel. I felt... holy. It was like I was the most important thing in your life, even though you only wanted men in your bed." 

His embarrassment wrapped around her. He scooped his arms around her waist and pulled her close, brushing his lips against her cheek, then her brow, then her nose. "You were," he murmured. "You are now, though not quite in the same way." He openly broadcast how utterly precious he felt her to be, and she blushed. 

"You do that for Methos," she said. Dropping her voiced dramatically she added, "No one can resist being the object of your attention!" She poked his nose with hers affectionately and cocked her head. "So where does it come from, this sanctity you bring to lovemaking?" 

He stuttered, and she had the rare pleasure of seeing him turn bright red. "I just... I just... I love to please you." He cupped her face in his palm and stared into her eyes, his sincerity humming in the air. "I love to know I can conquer your fears and kill the pain you went through. It's vital to me that I can do that." 

"Why?" 

He growled softly and rolled on his back, pulling her on top of him. "Are you looking a gift horse in the mouth?" 

She folded her arms on his chest and rested her chin on the backs of her hands, trying to look at his eyes rather than up his nose. "It's just that I've compared every other lover I've ever had with you." 

She saw his eyebrows vanish as they climbed into his hairline. His eyes danced in the dim light. "Oh? And how do I measure up?" 

She tweaked his nose. "There is no one like you, and you know it." 

He blinked and tilted his head on the mattress. "What was Dige like?" 

Amused by his question, she stretched her limbs and resettled herself more comfortably, half on the mattress and half on his chest. She dropped her head turning her right ear to listen to his heart beating. "Adventurous. We made love in some very interesting places. Ask me about the ice caves, sometime." 

"Aw, I want to hear about them now!" 

"Do you want to hear what he was like or not?" She eyed him with mock sternness and he smiled, then made a show of clamping his lips shut and took a deep breath, raising his chest and her several inches. She giggled, then continued. "He was loving and brought me ecstasy. And unlike you, he was not so absorbed in pleasuring me that I could not pleasure him. It was wonderful to return what I was given. I think that was the only thing that allowed me to... to not become obsessed with you." 

Grey's emotions became decidedly embarrassed. He ran his fingertips along the shell of her exposed ear, then down along the curve of her neck to rub her shoulders. "Ah, my love. If only you were a man," he said, jokingly. Then his expression turned serious and he cupped her cheek with his palm. "If you had not gone to Dige -- if I had not had Achmed to turn to -- it would have been quite a different story. It was very difficult for me to watch you with Dige, for a long time." He cleared his throat, blinking rapidly. Then he asked wistfully, "And Tran? What is he like?" 

She could not answer the question right off. Her mind was filled with 'if onlys' and she had to wait to clear such useless longings. Tran. Oh, my sweet love. She smiled slightly. "I never knew before how hard it was for him to take a lover." 

"Why?" 

Her thoughts drifted to the day she had sat at a table with Tran and took his hands in hers. She had opened her heart to him and waited as he stared at her, wide-eyed. Then he had lowered his own barriers and admitted his desire for her. "I always come to him. He is so tentative at first, then he allows himself to be aggressive. He is shy about being pleasured, but he loves to be held." 

"I do, too," Grey murmured. She felt his relief surround her, and knew he had been worried about her changed relationship with Tran. Dige had told her their teachers were once lovers. She had wondered why they were not anymore. Grey spoke as if in answer to her thoughts. "He would not let me pleasure him. He is afraid of himself." 

She hesitated, then asked, "And Methos?" 

Grey chuckled. "His fears are all external." 

They snuggled in together and drifted off to sleep again. The next day would come and they would be ready to meet it. 

* * *

It was like being caught in the winds of a tornado, something Methos had survived in the past and vowed never to have to survive again. Tran was coming apart around him. The spark of conscious awareness fled to higher levels, Methos clinging to it and following as it crashed against a membranous wall that rippled, then burst open and let them through. He was buffeted and knocked about by mad, flailing, hate-filled imagery. The scent of blood, overriding fear and loathing were all carried in masses of thought that felt solid as they struck him glancing blows. 

His body felt like it was drifting, bumping against the hard floor beneath him. His ears were buzzing and his flesh was tingling, especially around his fingers and toes. As a young voice screamed wordlessly, Methos ignored the strange sensations and scrambled to half-coordinated feet. Tran was already on his feet, but bent over double, head clutched in his hands and screaming. When Methos touched his shoulder, he sprang into flight, running blindly into the wall. 

Methos moved quickly and with a hard blow to the back of Tran's neck, silenced the madness. He bent over the crumpled form and gathered Tran up. For a moment, he just wanted to hold this man's body and wish peace into him. He sighed in frustration and carried Tran to the blankets. He wrapped them tightly around the small body. Then he went into the next chamber where the refrigerator was. 

He felt terribly dry and weak still. He pulled out some sandwiches, added Gatorade for the electrolytes. He returned to wait with the unconscious boy. 

He stared down at a face that looked troubled even while unconscious. He marshaled his arguments, the questions he would ask Tran to get him to calm down and think rationally again. He thought, Your attack wasn't the end of it. You cared for him for a century and he recovered. He's been the center of your life ever since then. Stop hating yourself. 

While he waited, his head cleared and the buzzing in his ears went away. It was a puzzling effect, but not unlike what happened when he had consumed laudanum or taken peyote. He chuckled, amused. Just the return of the mind to the body. Tran, do you do this to yourself often? he wondered. I hope not. It's not good for you. He cleared his throat. His mouth seemed filled with cotton and he felt weak. Tran would have to feel much worse, considering the state he was in when they had begun. 

At length, the blanket-wrapped body jerked suddenly. It jerked again. Then Methos felt the storm coming at him, but this time he did not let it in. He hardened his barriers and knocked the attack aside. There was a sensation like the wake left behind by a tearing wind and he sensed Tran springing again, savagely. Again he simply deflected the attack. The third time, he caught the attack and held it. They struggled against each other for a time, Methos carefully overmatching Tran. 

At last, the distraught boy wore himself out. He trembled, unable to move in the blankets, then began to weep. Methos clasped him more tightly and whispered soft, soothing nothings. Tran's weeping was not loud. It was the quiet exhaustion of thousands of years of restraint. He pressed his forehead against Methos' chest and let go, relieved that he could not hurt the older Immortal if he lost control again. 

After some time passed, Methos kissed Tran's cheek and asked, "Shall I unwrap you?" 

Tran pushed tighter against him and shook his head. He drew in a deep, slow breath and said raggedly, "He pulled me out of the fire." 

"Oh." Methos could not say anything to that. He could picture it easily: Grey running to pull Tran out of the fire, huge hands snatching the small frame and triggering the devastating attack. He shook his head and kissed Tran's forehead. I am not afraid of you. You cannot hurt me unless I permit it. He thought the words but left them unsaid, sure that Tran would sense them. 

"Take my head." 

"No." Methos opened the Gatorade and offered it to Tran. As his small burden stared at the bottle in wide-eyed surprise, Methos said gently, "Drink." 

Reluctantly, Tran accepted the liquid. Methos was careful not to let it pour too fast. There was silence between them until Tran had finished half the bottle. He turned his face away from Methos and asked, "Do you love Grey?" 

Methos smiled. "Yes. He is easy to love." 

"Then why are you being kind to me?" Tran asked, his voice shaky. 

Methos set the bottle down and folded his arms around Tran's torso. The smaller man shrank in the blankets but could not free himself. Methos waited until Tran lifted his head and their eyes met. He asked, "Why is Grey alive?" 

Tran shot him a wry look. "Because I didn't take his head." 

Methos chuckled and stroked Tran's hair. "That's the quick and easy answer," he scolded lightly. He felt a wistful affection for this man who held onto self-recrimination so tightly. He put his head down and brushed his nose against Tran's in a Grey-gesture. Ignoring the indignant sputter, he said, "You woke to find you'd destroyed your lover. What did you do then?" 

Tran shivered. He closed his eyes tightly, but tears escaped the corners. Methos watched the pain and confusion cross his face and waited. Tran had to take a few gasping breaths before he could speak. The look he shot Methos was both uncertain and pleading, but he spoke. "I... he was like a dead man. Still breathing, eyes open, but no response. Nothing there." 

"Catatonic," Methos murmured. 

Tran scowled. "The convenience of modern vocabulary. One word to describe so much emptiness." His voice broke and he sobbed, fighting the tears that began again. 

Methos held on to Tran while the boy regained control. After a time he prompted gently, "Tell me." 

A tremor ran through Tran. His face was tight with strain and he looked, in that moment, very old indeed. "I cleaned him up. I moved our camp. I spoke to him and called him, but he didn't respond at all. So I went into his mind. I knew the way now and... there was no resistance. No barrier. I'd destroyed it -- him." Tran tossed his head, closing his eyes tightly. A few tears seeped through his eyelashes, but he kept speaking. His voice shook. "I stayed inside his mind for days, trying to pull the pieces back together. I had to close the wounds. I tried to rebuild his barriers only to have them fall apart as fast as I worked. 'Don't hate me,' I said to him. I should have said, 'don't fear me.' No, I should have said nothing at all." He broke down again, sobbing. 

Methos waited. He thought of Grey, shattered and destroyed, and anguish stripped through his heart to be followed by empathy for Tran. It took me a thousand years to learn to care about people, and I could not even begin to try to make up for the things I had done. 

Tran shifted to lean harder against him. Drawing in a deep breath, the boy continued. "Eventually the walls held. But there was darkness everywhere at the core of his being. He woke up." Tran fell silent, closing his eyes and pressing his face into Methos' chest. He drew a deep breath. "He was terrified. Terrified of me, of blades, of being tall. Of anything he thought might anger me. If I spoke his name he'd be... catatonic... for hours. So I stopped speaking his name." 

Tran's voice was beginning to sound raspy. Methos picked up the Gatorade and held it so that he could drink. After a few sips, Tran turned his face away, shuddering. "I soon noticed that the fear faded when he... when he had orders to follow. I had to keep him busy. If he was idle, he would start to shake and his eyes would drain of life. So we moved camp every day. I had to have him do all the work. When that did not take up enough time, I made him exercise. It was over a year before he could hold a blade without blanking out. I made it a command, something he had to do if he didn't want to anger me. That was the only way.... That was so much easier than getting him to start thinking again. 

"If I caught something, I would smile just a little. If I smiled too widely he was frightened. The signs of his recovery were so subtle: when he stopped to admire the sunset or threw a stick for the dogs, when he finally picked up a blade without prompting. It was twenty years before he smiled on his own." 

Methos squeezed Tran gently. "What made you decide he was recovered?" 

Tran blinked, focusing on Methos' eyes. He seemed puzzled, then his face cleared. "When he disobeyed me." 

"Hmm?" 

Tran blinked again. "I'd ordered him -- with the Voice -- not to touch me. I didn't want to wake from any more nightmares to find...." 

"I know," Methos said gently. 

"An Immortal stumbled upon us. He went after Grey and I challenged him. I took his head, but I was badly injured. Grey picked me up and carried me to rest beside our campfire. I knew... I knew he was better. He was starting to make decisions for himself again. I could set him free and go lose myself, lose my head without worrying about what would happen to him." 

"But he wouldn't let you go." 

Tran smiled wryly and shook his head. "No. No, he wouldn't. And I could only watch with wonder as he blossomed. Oh, he was recovered with a vengeance!" He uttered a sobbing laugh. "For many years I basked in the wonder of him. But eventually I realized there was still something wrong." 

"What was wrong?" 

Tran drew a long, slow breath. "He never challenged me. He accepted anything I told him. He never kept a secret from me. Until he had to protect you." 

Methos found a lump in his throat and held back the smile he felt forming. Instead he bowed his head and closed his eyes until the feeling faded. "So this was never about Chichinquane." 

"It was," Tran replied quietly. "I couldn't believe you could survive with what you'd done." He stared intently into Methos' eyes and asked plaintively, "How do you live with yourself?" 

"I accept my past. I have no other choice if I want to live. And I do." Methos began to unwrap the blankets from Tran's body. "The past is done. There is nothing we can do to change it. Can you accept that?" 

Tran stared as Methos released him. He began to shiver. He felt more naked now than he had before. It was on his lips to beg Methos to wrap him back up in the blankets. Barriers down, he thought. No self-control. Methos caught his hands and clasped them gently. Tran looked into those eyes and felt himself falling. He was really falling. Methos gasped and caught him. Tran found himself clasped in strong arms, held against a muscled chest. Huge hands stroked from his shoulders down to his ankles, pressure firm and shoring up his barriers. 

Yet he could not stop shaking. He pressed his face against Methos' chest, appalled at how familiar that position had become. He drew in several deep breaths. I should strike at you again, he thought angrily. Not that it seems to do any good; you're proof against.... Startled realization shocked through him. He pulled himself up and met Methos' eyes again. "You let me hurt you." 

"I was wondering when you'd notice." 

"WHY?!" Tran shouted, furious. "You don't like pain! Why did you let me hurt you?" 

Methos kept his hands on Tran's shoulders. He studied the smaller man and knew the anguish for what it was. Tran was seeking another reason to hate himself. He would not permit it. "You stopped yourself when you saw what you were doing." 

Tran scowled. "I should have stopped myself before doing it." 

"So?" Methos shrugged at Tran's expression of indignant annoyance. "That is what happened then. What you choose to do now is what matters." 

"What I choose to do now," Tran began, only to be cut off as his stomach growled. 

"Eat?" asked Methos, picking up one of the sandwiches. 

Tran ducked his head, clinging to his anger amidst the amusement that threatened to overwhelm him. His emotions were see-sawing, and he tried to hold steady. "You son of a bitch." 

Methos clucked and grinned back at him. He set a sandwich in Tran's hands and said, "Live. Love. Be kind to animals." 

After they ate, the two returned to the pools. Methos started it by aggressively dunking Tran. Roused by the challenge, the smaller Immortal went after his tormenter with a vengeance. Methos called a halt after he almost drowned. To his delight, Tran gave in willingly, howling with laughter against the side of the pool. 

When Tran could get a breath he said, rubbing his eyes. "Oh, God. I've never laughed like that." 

"Never is a long time," Methos murmured. His thoughts turned to his beloved Alexa, who had said those words to him once. She with only a year left of life, and he had spent every precious moment with her. Never is a long time. 

Tran was shaking his head. "I can't remember just laughing like this. Tomorrow's potential disasters have always hung over me." 

Methos thought a thank-you to Alexa, then grinned and crossed the pool to lean against the side next to Tran. "Yes, well the future will come whether we wish it or not. We may as well enjoy it while we can." He tilted his head and eyed Tran suspiciously. "About the future: why do you want Mariah to adopt Etienne-Stuart?" 

Tran lifted his head and regarded Methos with a patently false innocent expression. "Who?" 

"Oh, come on! You can tell me," Methos wheedled, dropping his eyelashes coyly. 

Tran snorted. Then he eyed Methos speculatively. "I'd rather show you. What time is it?" 

"Beats me." Methos shrugged in response to Tran's rolling eyes. "I don't like to have a clock in here. I come here to unwind." 

"So where do you keep the clock?" Tran asked, undeterred. 

"In the next room, with the stove and the fridge." 

For some reason, this set Tran laughing again. 

It was night before they could leave the underground chambers. Tran's clothes had to be washed and mended first. Outside the balneum Methos had a sewing machine. When Tran questioned him on it, he simply replied that he had to have someplace to repair the more suspicious damages his clothing took these days. 

Tran watched Methos sewing. He shook his head. Waking up in Methos' care had been much like waking up to find Grey suddenly serving and caring about him. He wondered suddenly how much Grey remembered about that year. Did Methos get the idea to act as an obedient servant from something Grey had said? He considered it, then rejected that idea. No, Methos had thought of this on his own. He had forced Tran to look at himself, and the face Tran saw in the mirror was not terrible, as he had feared it would be. It was just the face of a man, not a monster. He chuckled wryly and shook his head again. 

They moved out into the Paris night and hailed a taxi to the orphanage. They made their way quietly into the darkened building. When they encountered an attendant in the halls, Tran calmed and silenced the woman with a gentle use of Voice. Methos nodded his admiration and the two proceeded silently to the room in which Etienne-Stuart slept. 

"This one," Tran whispered, leaning over the edge of the crib. He watched Methos carefully as the oldest man bent to study the child in the nightlights' dim, yellowy glow. 

Methos touched the soft silk of the baby's face. The faint milky smell of the baby's skin reached his nose and drew a smile to his lips. Babies were so sweet. Particularly when asleep, he amended wryly. This one had a little blue knit-hood on his head. The puffy, puckered lips moved slightly. Probably dreaming of more warm milk. Such a perfect little vision of a moment in time. "He's beautiful," Methos murmured. "But why him?" He lifted his eyes and met Tran's speculative gaze. 

Tran studied him for a moment. "You cannot tell? He's one of us." 

Startled, Methos looked down at the baby again. "What?" he asked. Already he was closing his eyes and listening with his body. He could feel nothing. Or could he? He was not certain. Was there some tiny tingling? Was there some strange pull toward this helpless creature? He shook his head in surprise and opened his eyes again to gaze searchingly at Tran. The other was staring down at the baby, his expression gentle and not a little fond. Methos said softly, "How did you find him?" 

Tran glanced up and smiled, his eyes hooded. "I was looking for you. I sensed something strange and tracked it. But it was him." 

Methos opened his mouth, then closed it again. Tran did not seem to intend to give a full explanation. The half-malicious curl of his lips expressed a certain pleasure in one-upping Methos. "Hmm," Methos said, for wont of any better line. He tossed his head and mock-glowered. "Let's go." 

"Where?" Tran asked quietly. 

Where, indeed? Methos stopped and considered the question. Well, why not his apartment? They needed some real sleep. "My place," he answered calmly. 

"Fair enough." 

They made their way out of the building and hailed another taxi. As they sat in the back, Tran broke the silence that had fallen between them. His tone faintly challenging he said, "Of course, you realize I get the bed?" 

Methos looked at him narrowly. "You're smaller. You get the couch." 

"I've just been through a terrible experience, and you want to give me the couch?" Tran gave Methos a new variation of wide-eyed injured helplessness. 

"Are you trying to make me feel guilty?" Methos retorted with a smile. He looked closely at his small companion, noting the still-drawn features. With the memories fresh, Tran would have nightmares. He would, too. He lowered his voice. "I'd rather not sleep alone tonight." 

Tran looked startled. He met Methos' eyes for a long moment before admitting, "Neither would I." 

Methos leaned close, his eyes twinkling, and dropped his voice even lower. "I wonder what the driver is making of this conversation?" 

Tran choked, coughed, and began laughing. 

They paid the driver when he dropped them off a few blocks from Methos' apartment. They made their way the last bit through courtyards and narrow, covered passages on foot. The silence between them was almost comfortable. They had lived in each other's memories and did not yet feel the need to say, or ask, much. They were walking towards the steps to Methos' door, the Eldest leading, when they moved into the sense of Presence, a double impact. Methos tilted his head slightly, continuing to step forward as if nothing were amiss. 

Tran stopped. "Mariah. And Grey?" he murmured in surprise. 

Methos turned to look at Tran, who leaned against the wall in clear confusion. He shrugged and said gently, "Grey knows my address." 

"But... he should still be asleep. He couldn't have so soon...." 

Methos had noticed that his small companion dealt with the unexpected badly. He knelt and put his hands loosely on Tran's shoulders. "Perhaps he gave Mariah the address, knowing you would put him to sleep?" 

Tran shook his head, eyes wide and staring through Methos. Then he focused and eyed his elder suspiciously. "That's what you would have done, isn't it? But he's awake." 

Methos opened his mouth to reply, grinning, when they heard a door open above them and then two pairs of feet pounding down the stairs. He stood quickly and stepped behind Tran, turning toward the sounds. 

Grey hit the bottom of the stairs first, Mariah right behind him. With a whoop of delight he sprang forward and caught Tran up in his arms. He stopped then, and simply held his small friend, his eyes closed. 

Mariah, just behind him, waited a moment before saying softly, "Grey." 

Tran's sudden sob was loud in the empty hall. Grey jumped, then loosened his grip enough so that he could pull back and see Tran's face. Stunned to see tears, he knelt and brushed them with his fingertips. Mariah joined him, gazing in surprise and relief at their dear friend. Tran drew a deep, shuddering breath and threw his arms about both of their necks. The silence in the hall was eerie, but was accompanied by a warm, joyful aura. 

Methos watched the three cling to each other, their eyes closed. His throat felt tight and there was a sting of tears in his eyes. He looked away. He could envy them their closeness, this willingness to accept each other for what they were. He remembered a time when he and Kronos had reflected each other perfectly. When had the mirror named Methos warped, while Kronos remained the same? For a moment the familiar loneliness claimed him, speaking Silas', Kronos' and even Caspian's names. Where are your brothers? it asked. 

"Methos," a voice, deep and warm and alive, reached his ears and he turned his face toward it. 

Grey with his shining eyes, tall perfection and merry smile. Grey with his strength and the will to hold and draw forth every nuance of pleasure from Methos' body. Standing in front of Methos, an arm poised to surround and pull him close. Closing his eyes with a sigh of relief, Methos leaned towards him and Grey took him in. Arms tightened about him. His entire front pressed against the solid mass of heat and strength that was Grey. The disconnected feeling was pushed away as though it had no substance and he realized it did not. His skin tingled where Grey's lips touched his ear, then cheek, then upon his own lips and his knees went weak. 

He heard Grey's whisper, felt him within saying, "Thank you, lover." 

More distant voices caught his ear, a low murmur that he instinctively tuned into but he only caught Mariah's voice saying softly, "I understand." 

He turned his head to find Tran and Mariah approaching, their hands linked. Both reached out and brushed their fingers on his cheek. Grey chuckled. 

Mariah smiled and said softly, "None of us will be alone tonight." 

Methos smiled at her, at them both and they returned it with their own smiles, eyes light and laughing. Then they were laughing out loud and both fled through the entrance to the building, and he was still there in the shelter of Grey's arms. 

* * *

The main title comes from Styx's "Snowblind" 

Mirror mirror on the wall  
The face you show me scares me so  
I thought that I could call your bluff  
But now the lines are clear enough  
Life's not pretty even though  
I try so hard to make it so  
Mornings are such cold distress  
How did I ever get into this mess  
I'm snowblind, can't live without you  
'Cause you're so fine, I can't get away  
I'm snowblind, snowblind, snowblind  
Harmless and innocent you devil in white  
You stole my will without a fight  
You filled me with confidence  
But you blinded my eyes  
You tricked me with visions of Paradise  
Now I realize that I'm snowblind  
Can't live without you  
'Cause you're so fine, I can't get away  
Yes I'm snowblind, snowblind, snowblind  
Mirror mirror I confess  
I can't escape this emptiness  
No more reasons to pretend  
Here comes that same old feeling again  
I'm snowblind, can't live without you  
'Cause you're so fine, I can't get away  
Won't you throw me a lifeline  
I'm going down for the third time  
'Cause I'm snowblind and I can't get away 

The section titles come largely from Alanis Morissette's "Thank U." Granted I cannot for the life of me understand the significance of such phrases as 'transparent dangling carrots', but that's not important and it's just me, anyway. 

How about getting off of these antibiotics  
How about stopping eating when I'm filled up  
How about them transparent dangling carrots  
How about that ever elusive kudo  
Thank you India  
Thank you terror  
Thank you disillusionment  
Thank you frailty  
Thank you consequence  
Thank you thank you silence  
How about me not blaming you for everything  
How about me enjoying the moment for once  
How about how good it feels to finally forgive you  
How about grieving it all one at a time  
Thank you India  
Thank you terror  
Thank you disillusionment  
Thank you frailty  
Thank you consequence  
Thank you thank you silence  
The moment I let go of it was  
The moment I got more than I could handle  
The moment I jumped off of it was  
The moment I touched down  
How about no longer being masochistic  
How about remembering your divinity  
How about unabashedly bawling your eyes out  
How about not equating death with stopping  
Thank you India  
Thank you providence  
Thank you disillusionment  
Thank you nothingness  
Thank you clarity  
Thank you thank you silence  
yeah yeah


End file.
